'^m^?^ 


=,  „f  ,=_ 


M2X5r:Eir  :isami!ss  wMic^ia^ 

NOTTIKCMAM, 
latu'  of  StJwhiu's  Colle«rc, 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/beautiesoflienryl<OOwliitiala 


BEAUTIES 


HENI17  ZIRZB  TTHITB, 

CONSISTING  OF  SELECTIONS 

FBOM    HIS 

POBTRV  AKD  PROSE. 


BT  ALFRED  HOWARD,  ESQ.. 


Stirtotyptd  by  David  Hillt....Sotton, 
PUBLISHED  BY  ANDRUS  St  J0DD. 


^imE.m  WMiTis. 


OS  HEARING  AN  JEOLIAN  HARP. 

So  ravishingly  soft  upon  the  tide 
Of  the  infuriate  gust  it  did  career, 
It  might  have  soothed  its  rugged  charioteer. 

And  sunk  him  to  a  zephyr  ; — then  it  died. 

Melting  in  melody  ; — and  I  descried, 

Born  to  some  wizard  stream,  the  form  appear 
Of  druid  sage,  who  on  the  far-off  ear 

Pour'd  his  lone  song,  to  which  the  surge  replied 

Or  thought  I  heard  the  hapless  pilgrim's  knell. 
Lost  iA  some  wild  enchanted  forest's  bounds. 
By  unseen  beiRgs  sung;  or  are  these  sounds 

Such,  as  'tis  said,  at  night  are  known  to  sWell 
By  starting  shepherd  on  the  lonely  heath. 
Keeping  his  night-watch  sad,  portending  deatl 

A    BALLAD. 

Be  hush'd,  be  hush'd,  ye  bitter  winds. 

Ye  pelting  rains,  a  little  rest: 
Lie  still,  lie  still,  ye  busy  thoughts. 

That  wring  with  grief  my  aching  breast. 

Oh!  cruel  was  my  faithless  love. 

To  triumph  o'er  an  artless  maid; 


4  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Oh!  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 

To  leave  the  breast  by  him  betray'd. 

When  exiled  from  my  native  home. 

He  should  have  wiped  the  bitter  tear; 

Nor  let  me  faint  and  lone  to  roam, 

A  heart-sick  weary  wanderer  here. 

My  child  moans  sadly  in  my  arms, 

The  winds  they  will  not  let  it  sleep - 

Ah!  little  knows  the  hapless  babe 

What  makes  its  wretched  mother  weep. 

Now  lie  thee  still,  my  infant  dear, 

I  cannot  bear  thy  sobs  to  see: 
Harsh  is  thy  father,  little  one, 

And  never  will  he  shelter  thee. 

Oh  that  I  were  but  in  my  grave. 

And  winds  were  piping  o'er  me  loud, 

And  thou,  my  poor,  my  orphan  babe. 

Were  nestling  in  thy  mother's  shroud! 

MY    OWN    CHARACTER. 

Addressed  {during  Illness)  to  a  Lady. 

Dear  Fanny,  I  mean,  now  I'm  laid  on  the  shelf. 
To  give  you  a  sketch — ay,  a  sketch  of  myself. 
'Tis  a  pitiful  subject,  I  frankly  confess. 
And  one  it  would  puzzle  a  painter  to  dress; 
But  however,  here  goes,  and  as  sure  as  a  gun, 
I'll  tell  all  my  faults  like  a  penitent  nun; 
For  I  know,  for  my  Fanny,  before  I  address  her. 
She  won't  be  a  cynical  father  confessor. 
Come,  come,  Hwill  not  do:  put  that  purling  brow  down 
You  can't,  for  the  soul  of  von,  Wrn  how  to  frown. 


KIRKE    WklTE.  6 

Well,  first  I  premise,  'tis  my  honest  conviction. 
That  my  breast  is  a  chaos  of  all  contradiction; 
Religious — Deistic — now  loyal  and  warm; 
Then  a  dagger-drawn  democrat  hot  for  reform: 
This  moment  a  fop,  that,  sententious  as  Titus; 
Democritus  now,  and  anon  Heraclitus; 
Now  laughing  and  pleased,  like  a  child  with  a  rattle; 
Then  vex'd  to  the  soul  with  impertinent  tattle; 
Now  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay. 
To  all  points  of  the  compass  I  veer  in  a  day. 

I'm  proud  and  disdainful  to  Fortune's  gay  child,    ~ 
But  to  Poverty's  offspring  submissive  and  mild; 
As  rude  as  a  boor,  and  as  rough  in  dispute; 
Then  as  for  politeness — oh!  dear — I'm  a  brute! 
I  show  no  respect  where  I  never  can  feel  it; 
And  as  for  contempt,  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it; 
And  so  in  the  suite,  by  these  laudable  ends, 
I've  a  great  many  foes,  and  a  very  few  friends. 

And  yet,  my  dear  Fanny,  there  are  who  can  feel 
That  this  proud  heart  of  mine  is  not  fashion'd  like  steel. 
It  can  love,  (can  it  not?) — it  can  hate,  I  am  sure; 
And  'tis  friendly  enough,  though  in  friends  it  be  poor. 
For  itself  though  it  bleed  not,  for  others  it  bleeds; 
If  it  have  not  ripe  virtues,  I'm  sure  it's  the  seeds; 
And  though  far  from  faultless,  or  even  so-so, 
I  think  it  may  pass  as  our  worldly  things  go. 

Well,  I've  told  you  my  frailties  without  any  gloBs; 
Then  as  to  my  virtues,  I'm  quite  at  a  loss: 
I  think  I'm  devout,  and  yet  I  can't  say 
But  in  process  of  time  I  may  get  the  wrong  way- 
I'm  a  general  lover,  if  that's  commendation. 
And  yet  can't  withstand — you  know  who's  fascinatioa- 
But  I  find  that  amidst  all  my  tricks  and  devices. 
Id  fisiuDg  for  virtues,  I'm  pulling  up  vices; 


6  KIKKK    WHlTf:. 

So  as  for  the  good,  why,  if  I  possess  h, 
I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  express  it. 

You  yourself  must  examine  the  lovelier  side, 
And  after  yoiu- every  art  you  have  tried, 
Whatever  my  faults,  I  may  venture  to  say, 
Hypocrisy  never  will  come  in  your  way. 
I  am  upright,  I  hope;  I'm  downright,  I'm  clear; 
And  I  think  ray  worst  foe  must  allow  I'm  sincere; 
And  if  ever  sincerity  glow'd  in  my  breast, 
'Tis  now  when  I  swear 

CHILDHOOD. 

Pictured  in  memory's  mellowing  glass  how  sweet 
Our  infant  days,  our  infant  joys  to  greet; 
To  roam  in  fancy  in  each  cherishM  scene. 
The  village  churchyard,  and  the  village  green. 
The  woodland  walk  remote,  the  greenwood  glade. 
The  mossy  seat  beneath  the  hawthorn's  shade. 
The  white-wash'd  cottage,  where  the  woodbine  grew. 
And  all  the  favourite  haunts  our  childhood  knew! 
'  How  sweet,  while  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze. 
To  view  th'  unclouded  skies  of  former  days  I 
Beloved  age  of  Innocence  and  smiles. 
When  each  wing'd  hour  some  new  delight  beguiles. 
When  the  gay  heart,  to  life's  sweet  day-spring  true. 
Still  find  sotne  insect  pleasure  to  pursue. 
Bless'd  Childhood,  h&il! — Thee  simply  will  I  sing, 
And  from  myself  the  artless  picture  bring; 
These  long-lost  scenes  to  me  the  past  restore, 
Each  humble  friend,  each  pleasure  now  no  more. 
And  every  stump  familiar  to  my  sight 
Recalls  some  fond  idea  of  delight. 
This  shrubby  knoll  was  once  my  favourite  seat; 
Here  did  I  love  at  evening  to  retreat. 


KIRKK   WHITB.  T 

And  muse  alone,  till  in  the  vault  of  night, 

Hesper,  aspiring,  show'd  his  golden  light. 

Here  once  again,  remote  from  human  noise, 

I  sit  me  down  to  think  of  foriper  joys; 

Pause  on  each  scene,  each  treasured  scene,  once  more, 

And  once  again  each  infant  walk  explore. 

While  as  eaih  grove  and  lawn  I  recognise, 

My  melted  soul  suffuses  in  my  eyes. 

And  oh !  thou  Power,  whose  mjrriad  trains  raaort 

To  distant  scenes,  and  picture  them  to  thought; 

Whose  mirror,  held  unto  the  mourner's  eye. 

Flings  to  his  soul  a  borrow 'd  gleam  of  joy; 

Bless'd  memory,  guidp,  with  finger  nicely  true. 

Back  to  my  youth  my  retrospective  view; 

Recall  with  faithful  vigour  to  my  mind 

Each  face  familiar,  each  relation  kind; 

And  all  the  finer  traits  of  them  afford. 

Whose  general  outline  in  my  heart  is  stored. 

SPORTS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor. 
When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labour  o'er. 
What  clamorous  throngs,what  happy  groups  were  seen. 
In  various  postures  scattering  o'er  the  green! 
Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 
Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race; 
While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass. 
With  doleful  tales  the  light-wing'd  minutes  pass. 
Well  I  remember'  how,  with  gesture  starch'd, 
A  band  of  soldiers  oft  with  pride  we  march'd: 
For  banners,  to  a  tall  ash  we  did  bind 
Our  handkerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind; 
And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead; 
And  guns  and  spears  we  m^de/ of  brittle  reed; 


8  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown. 
We  slorm'd  some  ruin'd  pig-sty  for  a  town. 

Pleased  with  our  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 
To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front, 
And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 
To  view  our  gambols,  and  our  boyish  gear. 
Still  £isshe  look'd,  her  wheel  kept  turning  round. 
With  its  beloved  monotony  of  sound. 
When  tired  with  play,  we'd  set  us  by  her  side, 
(For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide,) 
And  wonder  at  her  skill — well  known  to  fame — 
For  who  could  match  in  spinning  with  the  dame? 
Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  showed  with  pride 
To  strangers,  still  hei  thriftness  testified; 
Though  we  poor  wights  did  wonder  much,  in  troth. 
How  'twas  her  spinning  manufactured  cloth. 

Oft  would  we  leave,  though  well-beloved,  our  plav. 
To  chat  at  home  the  vacant  hour  away. 
Many's  the  time  Tve  scamper'd  down  the  glade. 
To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid, 
Which  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing. 
While  we  around  her  form'd  a  little  ring: 
She  told  of  innocence  foredoom'd  to  bleed. 
Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed. 
Of  little  children  murder'd  as  they  slept; 
While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and  wept. 
Sad  was  such  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we. 
Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be. 
Poor  simple  wights,  ah!  little  did  we  ween 
The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  life's  sad  scene! 
Ah,  little  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know 
This  world's  a  world  of  weeping  and  of  woe! 
Beloved  Tnoment  I  then  'twas  first  I  caught 
The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought; 


KIRKE  WHITE. 

Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thrilling  tear. 
Then  first  that  poesy  charm'd  mine  infant  ear. 
Soon  stored  with  much  of  legendary  lore, 
The  sports  of  childhood  charm'd  my  soul  no  more. 

Far  from  the  scene  of  gaiety  and  noise. 
Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 
I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'er-arching  shade, 
And  there,  on  mossy  carpet,  listless  laid. 
While  at  my  feet  the  rippling  runnel  ran. 
The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I'd  scan; 
Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air,   ' 
To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there. 


THE  CHRISTIAD.       A  DIVINE  POEM. 

BOOK  I. 
I. 

I  sing  the  Cfoss! — Ye  white-robed  angel  choirs. 
Who  know  the  chords  of  harmony  to  sweep, 
Ye,  who  o'er  holy  David's  varying  wires 

Were  won't,  of  old,  your  hovering  watch  to  keep, 
Oh,  now  descend!  and  with  your  harpings  deep, 
Pouring  sublime  the  full  symphonious  stream 

Of  music,  such  as  soothes  the  saint's  last  sleep, 
Awake  my  slumbering  spirit  from  its  dream, 
And  teaqh  me  how  t'  exalt  the  high  mysterious  theme. 
II. 
Mourn!    Salem,   mourn!    low   lies   thine  humbled 
state, 
Thy  glittering  fanes  are  levell'd  with  the  ground! 
Fallen  is  thy  pride! — Thine  halls  are  desolate! 
Where  erst  was  heard  the  timbrel's  sprightly 

sound, 
And  frolic  pleasures  tripped  the  nightly  round. 


10  K.IRKE   WHITE. 

There  breeds  the  wild  fox  lonely, — and  aghast 

Stands  the  mute  pilgrim  at  the  void  profound, 

Unbroke  by  noise,  save  when  the  hurrying  blast 

Sighs,  like  a  spirit,  deep  along  the  cheerless  waste. 

in. 

It  is  for  this,  proud  Solymal  thy  towers 
Lie  crumbling  in  the  dust;  for  this  forlorn 

Thy  genius  wails  along  thy  desert  bowers, 

While  stern  Destruction  laughs,  as  if  in  scorn, 
That  thou  didst  dare  insult  God's  eldest  born; 

And,  with  most  bitter  persecuting  ire, 

Pursued  his  footsteps  till  tke  last  day-dawn 

Rose  on  his  fortunes — and  thou  saw'st  the  fire. 
That  came  to  light  the  world,  in  one  great  flash  expire. 

IV. 

Oh!  for  a  pencil  dipped  in  living  light, 

To  paint  the  agonies  that  Jesus  bore! 
Oh!  for  the  long-lost  harp  of  Jesse's  might. 

To  hymn  the  Saviour's  praise  from  shore  to  shore; 

While  seraph  hosts  the  lofty  pxan  pour. 
And  heaven  enraptured  lists  the  loud  acclaim! 

May  a  frail  mortal  dare  the  theme  explore? 
May  he  to  human  ears  his  weak  song  frame? 
Oh!  may  he  dare  to  sing  Messiah's  glorious  name? 

V. 

Spirits  of  pity!  mild  Crusaders,  come! 

Buoyant  on  clouds  around  your  minstrel  float. 
And  give  him  eloquence  who  else  were  dumb. 

And  raise  to  feeling  and  to  fire  his  note! 

And  thou,  Urania!  who  dost  still  devote 
Thy  nights  and  days  to  God's  eternal  shrine. 

Whose  mild  eyes  'lumined  what  Isaiah  wrote. 
Throw  o'er  thy  Bard  that  solemn  stole  of  thine. 
And  clothe  him  for  the  fight  with  energy  divine 


KIRKE    WHITE  11 

VI. 

When  from  the  temple's  lofty  summit  prone, 
Satan  o'ercome,  fell  down;  and  throned  there. 

The  Son  of  God  confess'd,  in  splendour  shone; 
Swift  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  cuts  the  air. 
Mad  with  defeat,  and  yelling  his  despair, 

*  *  *  *  I):.*  *  « 

Fled  the  stern  king  of  Hell — and  with  the  glare 
Of  gliding  meteors,  ominous  and  red, 
Shot  athwart  the  clouds  that  gather'd  round  his  head. 
VII. 
Right  o'er  the  Euxine,  and  that  gulf  which  late 

The  rude  Massagetae  adored,  he  bent 
His  northering  course,  while  round,  in  dusky  state. 
The'    assembling  fiends  their   summon'd  troops 

augment ; 
Clothed  in  dark  mists,  upon  their  way  they  went. 
While,  as  they  pass'd  to  regions  more  severe. 

The  Lapland  sorcerer  swelPd  with  loud  lament 
The  solitary  gale,  and,  fiU'd  with  fear. 
The  howling  dogs  bespoke  unholy  spirits  near. 

VIII. 

Where  the  North  Pole,  in  moody  solitude. 

Spreads  her  huge  tracts  and  frozen  wastes  around. 

There  ice-rocks  piled  aloft,  in  order  rude. 
Form  a  gigantic  hall,  where  never  sound 
Startled  dull  Silence'  ear,  save  when  profound 

The  smoke-frost  mutter'd:  there  drear  Cold  for  aye 
Thrones  him;  and,  fix'd  on  his  primeval  mound. 

Ruin,  the  giant,  sits;  while  stern  Dismay 
Stalks  like  some  woe-struck  man  along  the  desert  way, 
IX. 

In  that  drear  spot,  grim  Desolation's  lair, 
Ko  sweet  remain  of  life  encheers  the  sight, 


12  KIRKE    WHITE. 

The  dancing  heart's-blood  in  an  instant  there 
Would  freeze  to  marj)le. — Mingling  day  and  night 
(Sweet  interchange,  which  makes  our  labours 
light) 
Are  there  unknown;  while  in  the  summer  skies 

The  sun  rolls  ceaseless  round  his  heavenly  height. 
Nor  ever  sets  till  from  the  scene  he  flies. 
And  leaves  the  long  blea  k  night  of  half  the  year  to  rise. 
X. 
'Twas  there,  yet  shuddering  from  the  burning  lake, 

Satan  had  fix'd  their  next  consistory. 
When  parting  last  he  fondly  hoped  to  shake 
Messiah's  constancy — and  thus  to  free 
The  powers  of  darkness  from  the  dread  decree 
Of  bondage  brought  by  him,  and  circumvent 

The'  unerring  ways  of  Him  whose  eye  can  see 
The  womb  of  Time,  and,  in  its  embryo  pent. 
Discern  the  colours  clear  of  every  dark  event. 
XI. 
Here  the  stern  monarch  stay'd  his  rapid  flight. 

And  his  thick  hosts,  as  with  a  jetty  pall. 
Hovering,  obscured  the  north  star's  peaceful  light, 
Waiting  on  wing  their  haughty  chieftam's  call. 
He,  meanwliile,  downward,  with  a  sullen  fall. 
Dropped  on  the  echoing  ice.     Instant  the  sound 

Of  their  broad  vans  was  hush'd,  and  o'er  the  hall, 
Vast  and  obscure:  the  gloomy  cohorts  bound. 
Till,  wedged  in  ranks,  the  seat  of  Satan  they  surround. 
XII. 
High  on  a  soUum  of  the  solid  wave, 

PrankM  with  rude  shapes  by  the  fantastic  frost, 
He  stood  in  silence ; — now  keen  thoughts  engrave 
Dark  figures  on  his  front ;  and,  tempest-toee'd, 
Hs  fean  to  say  that  every  hop*  i«  loat. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  18 

Meanwhile  the  multitude  as  death  are  mute: 

So,  ere  the  tempest  on  Malacca's  coast, 
Sweet  Quiet,  gently  touching  her  soft  lute. 
Sings  to  the  whispering  waves  the  prelude  to  dispute. 

XIII. 

At  length  collected,  o''er  the  dark  Divan 
The  arch  fiend  glanced,  as  by  the  Boreal  blaze 

Their  downcast  brows  were  seen,  and  thus  began 
His  fierce  harangue: — '  Spirits!  our  better  days 
Are  now  elapsed:  Moloch  and  Beliars  praise 

Shall  sound  no  more  in  groves  by  myriads  trod. 
Lo!  the  light   breaks! — The    astonish'd  nations 


For  us  is  lifted  high  the  avenging  rod! 
For,  spirits,  this  is  He, — this  is  the  Son  of  God! 

XIV. 

What  then! — shall  Satan's  spirit  crouch  to  fear? 

Shall  he  who  shook  the  pillars  of  God's  reign 
Drop  from  his  unnerved  arm  the  hostile  spear  f 

Madness!  The  very  thought  would  make  me  fain 

To  tear  the  spanglets  from  yon  gaudy  plain, 
And  hurl  them  at  their  Maker!     Fix'd  as  fate, 

I  am  his  foe! — Yea,  though  his  pride  should  deign 
To  sooth  mine  ire  with  half  his  regal  state, 
Still  would  I  burn  with  fixM,  unalterable  hate. 

XV. 

Now  hear  the  issue  of  my  cursed  emprise, 
When  from  our  last  sad  synod  I  took  flight, 

Buoy'd  with  false  hopes,  in  some  deep-laid  disguise. 
To  tempt  this  vaunted  Holy  One  to  write 
His  own  self-condemnation;  in  the  plight 

Of  aged  man  in  the  lone  wilderness. 
Gathering  a  few  stray  sticks,  I  met  bis  sight* 
2 


14  KIRK£    WHITE* 

And,  leaning  on  my  staff,  seem'd  much  to  guess 
What  cause  could  mortal  bring  to  that  forlorn  recess 

XVI. 
Then  thus  in  homely  guise  I  featly  framed 

My  lowly  speech: — '  Good  Sir,  what  leads  this  way 

Your  wandering  steps?  must    hapless  chance  be 

blamed 

That  you  so  far  from  haunt  of  mortals  stray! 

Here  have  I  dwell  for  many  a  lingering  day, 

Nor  trace  of  man  have  seen;  but  now!  methought 

Thou  wert  the  youth  on  whom  God's  holy  ray 
I  saw  descend  in  Jordan,  when  John  taught 
That  he  to  fallen  man  the  saving  promise  brought. 

xvn. 

*  I  am  that  man,'  said  Jesus,  <  I  am  He! 

But  truce  to  questions — Canst  thou  point  my  feet 
To  some  low  hut,  if  haply  such  there  be 

In  this  wild  labyrinth,  where  I  may  meet 

With  homely  greeting,  and  may  sit  and  eat; 
For  forty  days  I  have  tarried  fasting  here, 

Hid  in  the  dark  glens  of  this  lone  retreat, 
And  now  I  hunger;  and  my  fainting  ear         [near.' 
Longs  much  to  greet  the  sound  of  fountains  gushing 

XVIII. 
Then  thus  I  answer'd  wily: — '  If,  indeed. 

Son  of  our  God  thou  be'st,  what  need  to  seek 
For  food  from  men? — Lo !  on  these  flint  stones  feed* 

Bid  them  be  bread!  Open  thy  lips  and  speak. 

And  living  rills  from  yon  parch'd  rock  will  break.* 
Instant  as  I  had  spoke,  his  piercing  eye 

Fix'd  on  my  face; — the  blood  forsook  my  cheek, 
I  could  not  bear  his  gaze; — my  mask  slipped  by; 
I  wotild  have  shunned  his  look,  but  had  not  powerto  fly. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  U 

XIX. 

Then  he  rebuked  me  with  the  holy  word- 
Accursed  sounds!  but  now  my  native  pride 

Return'd,  and  by  no  foolish  qualm  deterred, 
I  bore  him  from  the  mountain's  woody  side. 
Up  to  the  summit,  where  extending  wide 

Kingdoms  and  cities,  palaces  and  fanes, 

Bright  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams,  were  descried. 

And  in  gay  dance,  amid  luxuriant  plains. 
Tripped  to  the  jocund  reed  the'  emasculated  swains. 

XX. 

•  Behold,'  I  cried,  '  these  glories!  scenes  divine! 

Thou  whose  sad  prime  in  pining  want  decays. 
And  these,  O  rapture!  these  shall  all  be  thine. 
If  thou  wilt  give  to  me,  not  God,  the  praise. 
Hath  he  not  given  to  indigence  thy  days  ? 
Is  not  thy  portion  peril  here  and  pain  ? 

Oh!  leave  his  temples,  shun  his  wounding  ways! 
Seize  the  tiara!  these  mean  weeds  disdain: 
Kneel,  kneel,  thou  man  of  woe,  and  peace  and  splen- 
dour gain.' 

XXI 

•  Is  it  not  written,'  sternly  he  replied, 

*  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God !'  frowning  he  spake. 
And  instant  sounds,  as  of  the  ocean  tide. 

Rose,  and  the  whirlwind  from  its  prison  brake. 
And  caught  me  up  aloft,  till  in  one  flake. 
The  sidelong  volley  met  my  swift  career,      [quake 
And  smote  me  earthward. — Jove  himself  might 
At  such  a  fall;  my  sinews  crack 'd,  and  near. 
Obscure  and  dizzy  sounds  seem'd  ringing  in  mine  ear. 


16  KIRKE    WHITK. 

XXII. 

Senseless  and  stunned  I  lay;  till,  casting  round 
My  half  unconscious  gaze,  I  saw  the  foe 

Borne  on  a  car  of  roses  to  the  ground, 
By  volant  angels;  and  as  sailing  slow 
He  sunk,  the  hoary  battlement  below, 

While  on  the  tall  spire  slept  the  slant  sunbeam. 
Sweet  on  the  enamour'd  zephjT  was  the  flow 

Of  heavenly  instruments.     Such  strains  oft  seem. 
On  starlight  hill,  to  soothe  the  Syrian  shepherd's  dream 

XXIII. 

I  saw,  blaspheming.     Hate  renew'd  my  strength; 
I  smote  the  ether  with  my  iron  wing, 

And  left  the'  accursed  scene. — Arrived  at  length 
In  these  drear  halls,  to  ye,  my  peers!  I  bring 
The  tidings  of  defeat.     Hell's  haughty  king 

Thrice  vanquish'd,  baffled,  smitten,  and  dismay'd! 

0  shame!  Is  this  the  hero  who  could  fling 
Defiance  at  his  Maker,  while  array'd. 

High  o'erthe  walls  of  light,  rebellion's  banners  play'd! 

XXIV. 

Yet  shall  not  Heaven's  bland  minions  triumph  long; 

Hell  yet  shall  have  revenge. — 0  glorious  sight. 
Prophetic  visions  on  my  fancy  throng, 

1  see  wild  Agony's  lean  finger  write 

Sad  figures  on  his  forehead! — Keenly  bright 
Revenge's  flambeau  burns!  Now  in  his  eyes 

Stand  the  hot  tears, — immantled  in  the  night, 
Lo!  he  retires  to  mourn! — I  hear  his  cries!     [dies!' 
He  faints — he  falls — and  lo! — 'tis  true,  ye  powers!  he 

XXV. 

Thus  spake  the  chieftain;  and  as  if  he  view'd 
The  scene  he  pictured,  with  his  foot  advanced 


EIRKE    WHITE.  17 

And  chest  inflated,  motionless  he  stood, 
While  under  his  uplifted  shield  he  glanced, 
,        With  straining  eye-ball  fix'd  like  one  entranced. 
On  viewless  air; — thither  the  dark  platoon 

Gazed  wondering,  nothing  seen,  save  when  there 
danced 
The  northern  flash,  or  fiend  late  fled  from  noon, 
Darken'd  the  disk  of  the  descending  moon. 

XXVI. 
Silence  crept  stilly  through  the  ranks — the  breeze 

Spake  most  distinctly.     As  the  sailor  stands. 
When  all  the  midnight  gasping  from  the  seas 
Break  boding  sobs,  and  to  his  sight  expands 
High  on  the  shrouds  the  spirit  that  commands 
The  ocean-farer's  life, — so  stiffs — so  sear 

Stood  each  dark  power; — while   through  their 
numerous  bands 
Beat  not  one  heart;  and  mingling  hope  and  fear 
Now  told  them  all  was  lost,  now  bade  revenge  appear 

XXVII. 
One  there  was  there,  whose  loud  defying  tongue 

Nor  hope  nor  fear  had  silenced,  but  the  swell 
Of  over-boiling  malice.     Utterance  long 

His  passion  mock'd,  and  long  he  strove  to  tell 

His  labouring  ire;  still  syllable  none  fell 
From  his  pale  quivering  lip.  but  died  away 

For  very  fury ;  from  each  hollow  cell 
Half  sprang  his  eyes,  that  cast  a  flamy  ray, 
j^id        *##♦**» 

XXVIII. 

*  This  comes,'  at  length  burst  from  the  furious  chie^ 
'This  comes  of  distant  counsels!  Here  behold 


18  KIRKE    WHITE. 

The  fruits  of  wily  cunning!  the  relief 
Which  coward  policy  would  fain  unfold. 
To  sooth  the  powers  that  warred  with  heaven  of 
0  wise!  0  potent!  O  sagacious  snare!  [old! 

And  lo!  our  prince — the  mighty  and  the  bold. 
There  stands  he,  spell-struck,  gaping  at  the  air. 
While   heaven   subverts   his  reign,   and  plants   her 
standard  there.' 

XXIX. 

Here,  as  recover'd,  Satan  fix'd  his  eye 

Full  on  the  speaker;  dark  it  was  and  stem: 

He  wrapped  his  black  vest  round  him  gloomily, 
And  stood  like  one  whom  weightiest  thoughtB 

concern. 
Him  Moloch  mark'd,  and  strove  again  to  turn 

His  soul  to  rage.     '  Behold,  behold,'  he  cried, 

,    '  The  lord  of  Hell,  who  bade  these  legions  spurn 

Almighty  rule — behold  he  lays  aside 
The  spear  of  just  revenge,  and  shrinks,  by  man  defied.* 

XXX. 

Thus  ended  Moloch,  and  his  [burning]  tongue 
Hung  quivering,  as  if  [mad]  to  quench  its  heat 

In  slaughter.    "So,  his  native  wilds  among. 
The  famish'd  tiger  pants,  when,  near  his  seat, 
Press'd  on  the  sands,  he  marks  the  traveller's  feet. 

Instant  low  n»urmurs  rose,  and  many  a  sword 
Had  from  its  scabbard  sprung;  but  toward  the 

Of  the  arch-fiend  all  turn'd  with  one  accord,     [seat 
As  loud  he  thus  harangued  the  sanguinary  horde. 

•  *  ««  «  «  g):  « 

Ye  powers  of  Hell,  I  am  no  coward.     I  proved  thia 
•f  old^—Who  led  your  forces  against  the  armies  of 


KIRKE    WHITE.  19 

Jehovah  ?  Who  coped  with  Ithuriel  and  the  thunders 
of  the  Almighty  ?  Who,  when  stunned  and  confused 
ye  lay  on  the  burning  lake,  who  first  awoke,  and  col- 
lected your  scattered  powers  ?  Lastly,  who  led  you 
across  the  unfathomable  abyss  to  this  delightful  world, 
and  established  that  reign  here  which  now  totters  to 
its  base  ?  How,  therefore,  dares  yon  treacherous  fiend 
to  cast  a  stain  on  Satan's  bravery  ?  he  who  preys  only 
on  the  defenceless — who  sucks  the  blood  of  infants, 
and  delights  only  in  acts  of  ignoble  cruelty  and  un- 
equal contention!  Away  with  the  boaster  who  never 
joins  in  action,  but,  like  a  cormorant,  hovers  over  the 
field,  to  feed  upon  the  wounded,  and  overwhelm  the 
dying.  True  bravery  is  as  remote  from  rashness  as 
from  hesitation:  let  us  counsel  coolly,  but  let  us  exe- 
cute our  counselled  purposes  determinately.  In  power 
we  have  learned,  by  that  experiment  which  lost  ua 
Heaven,  that  we  are  inferior  to  the  Thunder-bearer: 
— In  subtlety — in  subtlety  alone  we  are  his  equals. 
Open  war  is  impossible. 

Thus  we  shall  pierce  our  conqueror,  through  the 
Which  as  himself  he  loves;  thus  if  we  fall,  [race 

We  fall  not  with  the  anguish,  the  disgrace 
Of  falling  unrevenged.  The  stirring  call 
Of  vengeance  rings  within  me!  Warriors  all, 

The^word  is  vengeance,  and  the  spur  despair,  [pall 
Away  with  coward  wiles! — Death's  coal-black 

Be  now  our  standard! — Be  our  torch  the  glare 
Of  cities  fired!  our  fifes,  the  shrieks  that  fill  the  airf 

Him  answering  rose  Mecashphim,  who  of  old, 
Far  in  the  silence  of  Chaldea's  groves, 

Was  worshipped,  god  of  fire  with  charms  untold 


M  KIRK£    WHITr. 

And  mystery.     His  wandering  spirit  rovea, 

Now  vainly  searching  for  the  flame  it  loves, 

And  sits  and  mourns  like  some  white-robed  sire, 

Where   stood  his   temple,    and   where    fragrant 
And  cinnamon  unheap'd  the  sacred  pyre,      [cloves 
And  nightly  magi  watch'd  the  everlasting  fire 
He  waved  his  robe  of  flame,  he  cross'd  his  breast* 

And,  sighing,  his  papyrus  scarf  survey'd. 
Woven  with  dark  characters ;  then  thus  address'd 
The  troubled  council: 

1. 
Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 

With  self-rewarding  toil;  thus  far  have  sung 
Of  gsdlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 
The  lyre  which  I  in  early  days  have  strimg; 
And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hom-. 

On  the  dark  cypress!  and  the  strings  which  rung 
With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er. 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard 
no  more. 
And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  re-artimate  the  layj? 
Oh!  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men. 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray. 
One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day  I 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree!     , 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way. 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee 
£ro  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am 
free. 


XIRKE  WHITE.  11 

CHRISTMAS-DAT.       1804. 

Yet  once  more,  and  once  more,  awake,  my  harp, 
From  silence  and  neglect — one  lofty  strain, 
Lofty,  yet  wilder  than  the  winds  of  heaven, 
And  speaking  mysteries  more  than  words  can  tell, 
I  ask  of  thee,  for  I,  with  hymnings  high,  ■ 
Would  join  the  dirge  of  the  departing  year. 
Yet  with  no  wintry  garland  from  the  woods. 
Wrought  of  the  leafless  branch,  or  ivy  sear. 
Wreath  I  thy  tresses,  dark  December!  now; 
Me  higher  quarrel  calls,  with  loudest  song, 
And  fearful  joy  to  celebrate  the  day 
Of  the  Redeemer. — Near  two  thousand  suns 
Have  set  their  seals  upon  the  rolling  lapse 
Of  generations,  since  the  day-spring  first 
Beam'd  from  on  high! — Now  to  the  mighty  mass 
Of  that  increasing  aggregate  we  add 
One  unit  more.     Space,  in  comparison, 
How  small,  yet  mark'd  with  how  much  misery.' 
Wars,  famines,  and  the  fury  Pestilence, 
Over  the  nations  hanging  her  dread  scourge; 
The  oppressed,  too,  in  silent  bitterness, 
Weeping  their  sufferance;  and  the  arm  of  wrong. 
Forcing  the  scanty  portion  from  the  weak, 
And  steeping  the  lone  widow's  couch  with  tears. 

So  has  the  year  been  character'd  with  woe, 
In  Christian  land,  and  mark'd  with  wrongs  and  crime; 
Yet  'twas  not  thus  ife  taught — not  thus  He  lived. 
Whose  birth  we  this  day  celebrate  with  prayer 
And  much  thanksgiving. — He  a  man  of  woes, 
Went  on  the  way  appointed, — path,  though  rude, 
Yet  borne  with  patience  still: — He  came  to  cheer 
The  broken-hearted,  to  raise  up  the  sick. 


2S  KIRKE    WHITC. 

And  on  the  v^andering  and  benighted  mind 
To  pour  the  light  of  truth. — 0  task  divine ! 
0  more  than  angel  teacher!  He  had  words 
Ta  soothe  the  barking  waves,  and  hush  the  winds: 
And  when  the  soul  was  toss'd  with  troubled  seas. 
Wrapped  in  thick  darkness  and  the  howling  storm. 
He,  pointing  to  the  star  of  peace  on  high, 
Ann'd  it  with  holy  fortitude,  and  bade  it  smile 

At  the  surrounding  wreck. 

When  with  deep  agony  his  heart  was  rack'd. 
Not  for  himself  the  tear-drop  dew'd  his  cheek. 
For  them  He  wept,  for  them  to  Heaven  He  pray'd. 
His  persecutors — '  Father,  pardon  them, 
They  know  not  what  they  do.' 

Angels  of  Heaven, 
Ye  who  beheld  Him  fainting  on  the  cross. 
And  did  him  homage,  say,  may  mortal  join 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  risen  God  ? 
Will  the  faint  voice  and  groveling  song  be  heard 
Amid  the  seraphim  in  light  divine  ? 
Yes,  He  will  deign,  the  Prince  of  Peace  will  deign, 
For  mercy  to  accept  the  hymn  of  faith. 
Low  though  it  be  and  humble. — Lord  of  life. 
The  Christ,  the  Comforter,  thine  advent  now 
Fills  ray  uprising  soul! — I  mount,  I  fly 
Far  o'er  the  skies,  beyond  the  rolling  orbs; 
The  bonds  of  flesh  dissolve,  and  earth  recedes. 
And  care,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  are  no  more. 


CLIFTON    GROVE.       A    SKEl'CH    IN    TKRSB. 

Lo!  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering  light. 
And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  23 

No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measured  stroke 
Which,  with  the  dawn,  from  yonder  dingle  broke; 
No  more  hoarse  clamouring  o'er  the'  uplifted  head. 
The  crows  assembling,  seek  their  wind-rock 'd  bed; 
Still 'd  is  the  village  hum — the  woodland  sounds 
Have  ceased  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds. 
And  general  silence  reigns,  save  when  below 
The  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard  to  flow; 
And  save  when,  swung  by  'nighted  rustic  late. 
Oft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarririg  gate; 
Or  when  the  sheep-bell,  in  the  distant  vale, 
Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  downy  gale. 

Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile. 
Released  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil, 
And  draws  his  household  round  their  evening  fire, 
And  tells  the  oft-told  tales  that  never  tire; 
Or  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise. 
And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies. 
The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  labouring  loom, 
The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room. 
And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 
The  stated  course  of  customary  sin; 
Now,  now  my  solitary  way  I  bend 
Where  solemn  groves  in  awful  state  impend; 
And  clifls,  that  boldly  rise  above  the  plain. 
Bespeak,  bless'd  Clifton!  thy  sublime  domain. 
Here  lonely  wandering  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 
I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hour; 
To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease. 
And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 
And  oh!  tholi  sacred  Power,  who  rear'st  on  high 
Thy  leafy  throne  where  waving  poplars  sigh! 
Genius  of  woodland  shades!  whose  mild  control 
St«ala  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul. 


24  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Come  with  thy  wonted  ardour,  and  inspire 

My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallowed  fire 

And  thou  too,  Fancy,  from  thy  starry  sphere. 

Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine  eai, 

Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravish'd  sight, 

Veil'd  in  soft  visions  pf  serene  delight. 

At  thy  command  the  gale  that  passes  by 

Bears  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 

Thou  wavest  thy  wand,  and  lo!  what  forms  appear! 

On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career! 

The  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale. 

And  hosts  of  Sylphids  on  the  moon-beams  sail. 

This  gloomy  alcove  darkling  to  the  sight. 
Where  meeting  trees  create  eternal  night; 
Save,  when  from  yonder  stream,  the  sminy  ray. 
Reflected,  gives  a  dubious  gleam  of  day; 
Recalls,  endearing  to  my  altered  mind. 
Times,  when  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclined, 
I  watch'd  the  lapwing  to  her  clamorous  brood; 
Or  lured  the  robin  to  its  scatter'd  food; 
Or  woke  with  song  the  woodland  echo  wild. 
And  at  each  gay  response  delighted  smiled. 
How  oft,  when  childhood  threw  its  golden  ray 
Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day. 
Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary*  boy. 
When  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted  sky. 
And  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm; 
And  heard,  while  awe  congeal'd  my  inmost  Boul» 
His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunders  roll. 
With  secret  joy,  I  view'd  with  vivid  glare 
The  volleyed  lightnings  cleave  the  sullen  air; 
And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  reviled. 
With  awful  pleasure  big — I  heard  and  smiled. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  25 

Beloved  remembrance! — Memory  which  endears 
This  siFent  spot  to  my  advancing  years. 
Here  dwells  eternal  peate,  eternal  rest. 
In  shades  like  these  to  live  is  to  be  bless'd. 
While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd, 
In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 
And  thou  too.  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 
Shoots  with  electric  swiftness  through  the  frame. 
Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit  with  up-tum'd  eyej 
And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by. 
The  woods  that  wave,  the  gray  owl's  silken  flight. 
The  mellow  music  of  the  listening  hight. 
Congenial  calms  more  welcome  to  my  breast 
Than  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  dress'd, 
To  Heaven  my  prayers,  my  daily  prayers,  I  raise. 
That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days, 
Withdrawn,  remote  from  all  the  haunts  of  strife, 
May  trace  with  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life, 
And  when  her  banner  Death  shall  o'er  me  wave, 
May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 
Now  as  I  rove,  where  wide  the  prospect  grows, 
A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 
No  more  above  the'  embracing  branches  meet. 
No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet. 
But  seen  deep,  down  the  cliff"'s  impending  side. 
Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver  tiae. 
Dim  is  my  upland  path, — across  the  green 
Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between 
The  chequer'd  glooms,  the  moon  her  chaste  ray  sheds, 
Where  knots  of  blue-bells  droop  their  graceful  heads, 
And  beds  of  violets  blooming  'mid  the  trees. 
Load  with  waste  fragrance  the  nocturnal  breeze. 
Say,  why  does  Man,  while  to  his  opening  sight 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
S 


26  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Arid  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow, 
'  And  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know, 
Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms? 
Why  clasp  the  siren  Pleasure  to  his  arms; 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath. 
Though  fraught  with  ruin,  infamy,  and  death  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyment  clings. 
Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  springs; 
Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  bow  free  from  strife. 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life; 
No  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure. 
The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  allure. 
But  the  sweet  portion  he  was  wont  to  sip. 
Would  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 

Fair  Nature!  thee,  in  all  thy  varied  charms. 
Fain  would  I  clasp  for  aver  in  my  arms! 
Thine  are  the  sweets  which  never,  never  sate, 
Thine  still  remain  through  all  the  storms  of  fate. 
Though  not  for  me,  " twas  Heaven's  divine  command 
To  roll  in  acres  of  paternal  land, 
Vet  still  my  lot  is  bless'd,  while  I  enjoy 
Thine  opening  beauties  with  a  lover's  eye. 

Happy  is  he,  who,  though  the  cup  of  bliss 
Has  ever  shunned  him  when  he  thought  to  kiss. 
Who, still  in  abject  poverty  or  pain, 
Can  count  with  pleasure  what  small  joys  remain: 
Though  were  his  sight  convey'd  from  zone  to  zone. 
He  would  not  find  one  spot  of  ground  his  own, 
Yet,  as  he  looks  around,  he  cries  with  glee, 
These  bounding  prospects  all  were  made  for  me: 
For  me  yon  waving  fields  their  burden  bear. 
For  me  yon  labourer  guides  the  shining  share, 
While  happy  I  m  idle  ease  recline. 
And  mark  the  glorious  visions  as  they  shine. 


KIRKE   WHITE.  JT 

This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told. 
Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold. 
Content  can  soothe,  where'er  by  fortune  placed. 
Can  rear  a  garden  in  the  desert  waste. 

How  lovely,  from  this  hill's  superior  height, 
Spreads  the  wide  view  before  my  straining  sight! 
O'er  many  a  varied  mile  of  lengthening  ground, 
E'en  to  the  blue-ridged  h'lJ's  remotest  bound. 
My  ken  is  borne;  while  o'er  my  head  serene. 
The  silver  moon  illumes  the  misty  scene; 
Now  shining  clear,  now  darkening  in  the  glade. 
In  all  the  soft  varieties  of  shade. 

Behind  me,  lol  the  peaceful  hamlet  lies. 
The  drowsy  god  has  seal'd  the  cotter's  eyes.  ' 

No  more,  where  late  the  social  faggot  blazed. 
The  vacant  peal  resounds,  by  little  raised; 
But  lock'd  in  silence,  o'er  Arion's*  star 
The  slumbering  Night  rolls  on  her  velvet  car: 
The  church-bell  tolls,  deep-sounding  down  the  glade. 
The  solemn  hour  for  walking  spectres  made; 
The  simple  plough-boy,  wakening  with  the  sound. 
Listens  aghast,  and  turns  him  startled  round, 
Then  stops  his  ears,  and  strives  to  close  his  eyes. 
Lest  at  the  sound  some  grisly  ghost  should  rise. 
Now  ceased  the  long,  and  monitory  toll. 
Returning  silence  stagnates  in  the  soul; 
Save  when,  disturb'd  by  dreams,  with  wild  affright. 
The  deep-mouth'^J  mastiff  bays  the  troubled  night: 
Or  where  the  village  ale-house  crowns  the  vale. 
The  creeking  sign-post  whistles  to  the  gale. 

*  The   Constellation  Delphinus.     For   authority  fer  thia 
appellation,  vide  Ovid's  Fasti,  B.  xi.  113. 


28  KIRKE    WHITE,     ■ 

A  little  onward  let  me  bend  my  \^ay. 

Where  the  mos^'d  seat  invites  the  traveller's  stay 

That  spot,  oh  I  yet  it  is  the  very  same; 

That  hawthorn  gives  it  shade,  and  gave  it  name: 

There  yet  the  primrose  opes  its  earliest  bloom. 

There  yet  the  violet  sheds  its  first  perfume, 

And  in  the  branch  that  rears  above  the  rest,  ' 

The  robin  unmolested  builds  its  nest. 

'Twas  here,  when  Hope,  presiding  o'er  my  breast,, 

In  vivid  colours  every  prosppct  dress'd, 

'Twas  here,  reclining,  I  indulged  her  dreams. 

And"  lost  the  hour  in  visionary  schemes. 

Htjre,  as  I  preSs  once  more  the  ancient  seat. 

Why,  bland  deceiver!  not  renew  the  cheat! 

Say,  can  a  few  short  years  thi.s  change  achieve,    . 

That  thy  illusions  can  no  more  deceive! 

Time's  sombrous  tints  have  every  view  o'ersprcad. 

And  thou  too,  gay  seducer,  art  thou  fled? 

Though  vain  thy  promise,  and  thy  suit  severe. 

Yet  thou  couldst  guile  Misfortune  of  her  tear. 

And  oft  thy  smiles  across  life's  gloomy  way, 

Could  throw  a  gleam  of  transitory  day. 

How  gay,  in  youth,  the  flattering  future  seemsJ 

How  sweet  is  manhood  in  the  infant's  dreams! 

The  dire  mistake  too  soon  is  brought  to  light,. 

And  all  is  buried  in  redoubled  night. 

Yet  some  can  rise  superior  to  their  pain, 

And  in  their  breast  the  charmer  Hope  retain: 

While  others,  dead  to  feeling,  can  survey. 

Unmoved,  their  fairest  prospects  fade  away: 

But  yet  a  few  there  be, — too  soon  o'ercasti 

Who  shrink  unhappy  from  the  adverse  blast, 

And  woo  the  first  bright  gleam,  which  breaks  the  gloom. 

To  gild  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 


KIRKK    WHITE.  29 

So  in  these  shades  the  early  primrose  blows, 
Too  soon  deceived  by  suns  and  melting  snows. 
So  fails  untimely  on  the  desert  waste, 
Its  blossoms  withering  in  the  northen  blast. 

Now  pass'd  wh^te'er  the  upland  heights  display, 
Down  the  sleep  cliff  I  wind  my  devious  way; 
Oft  rousing,  as  the  rustling  path  I  beat, 
The  timid  have  from  its  accustom'd  seat. 
And  oh!  how  sweet  this  walk  o'erhung  with  wood. 
That  winds  the  margin  of  the  solemn  flood  ! 
What  rural  objects  steal  upon  the  sight! 
What  rising  vievvi  prolong  the  calm  delight!  f 

The  brooklet  branching  from  the  silver  Trent, 
The  whispering  birch  by  every  zephyr  bent. 
The  woody  island,  and  the  naked  mead. 
The  lowly  hut  half  hid  in  groves  of  reed. 
The  rural  wicket,  and  the  rural  stile. 
And,  frequent  interspersed,  the  woodman's  pile: 
Above,  below,  where'er  I  turn  mine  eyes. 
Rocks,  waters,  woods,  in  grand  succession  rise. 
High  up  the  cliff  the  varied  groves  ascend. 
And  mournful  larches  o'er  the  wave  impend. 
Around,  what  sounds,  what  magic  sounds,  arise. 
What  glimmering  scenes  salute  my  ravish'd  eyes! 
Soft  sleep  the  waters  on  their  pebbly  bed. 
The  woods  wave  gently  o'er  my  drooping  head,    ~ 
And,  swelling  slow,  comes  wafted  on  the  wind. 
Lorn  Progne's  note  from  distant  copse  behind. 
Still,  every  rising  sound  of  calm  delight  - 

Stamps  but  the  fearful  silence  of  the  night. 
Save  when  is  heard,-  between  each  dreary  rest, 
Discordant  from  her  solitary  nest. 
The  owl,  dull-screaming  to  the  wandering  moon: 
Now  riding,  cloud-wrapt,  near  her  higlrsst  noon: 
3* 


so  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Or  when  the  wild-duck,  southering,  hither  rides. 
And  plunges  sullen  in  the  sounding  tides. 

How  oft,  in  this  sequester'd  spot,  when  youth 
Gave  to  each  tale  the  holy  force  of  truth. 
Have  I  long  linger'd,  while  the  milk-maid  sung 
The  tragic  legend,  till  the  woodland  rung! 
That  tale,  so  sad!  which,  still  to  memory  dear. 
From  its  sweet  sonrce  can  call  the  sacred  tear, 
And  (lull'd  to  rest  stern  Reason's  harsh  control) 
Steal  its  soft  magic  to  the  passive  soul. 
These  hallow'd  shades, — these  trees  that  woo  the  wind* 
Recall  its  faintest  features  to  my  mind. 

A  hundred  passing  years,  with  march  sublime. 
Have  swept  beneath  the  silent  wing  of  time, 
Since  in  yon  hamlet's  solitary  shade, 
Reclusely  dwelt  the  far-famed  Clifton  maid. 
The  beauteous  Margaret:  for  her  each  swain 
Confess'd  in  private  his  peculiar  pain. 
In  secret  sigh'd,  a  victim  to  despair, 
Nor  dared  to  hope  to  win  the  peerless  fair. 
No  more  the  shepherd  on  the  blooming  mead. 
Attuned  to  gaiety  his  artless  reed, 
No  more  entwined  the  pansied  wreath,  to  de.ok 
His  favourite  wether's  unpolufed  neck. 
But  listless,  by  yon  babbling  stream  reclined 
He  mix'd  his  sobbings  with  the  passing  wind 
Bemoan'd  his  helpless  love;  or,  boldly  bent. 
Far  from  these  smiling  fields,  a  rover  went. 
O'er  distant  lands,  in  search  of  ease  to  roam, 
A  self-will'd  exile  from  his  native  home. 

Yet  not  to  all  the  maid  express'd  disdain; 
Her  Bateman  loved,  nor  loved  the  youth  in  vain. 
Full  oft,  low  whispering  o'er  these  arching  boughs. 
The  echoing  vault  responded  to  their  vows. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  31 

As  here,  deep  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day 
Eniunour'd  oft,  they  took  their  secret  way. 
Yon  bosky  dingle,  still  the  rustics  name; 
'Twas  there  the  blushing  maid  confess'd  her  flame. 
Down  yon  green  lane  they  oft  were  seen  to  hie. 
When  evening  sltlmber'd  on  the  western  sky. 
That  blasted  yew,  that  mouldering  walnut  bare. 
Each  bears  mementos  of  the  fated  pair. 

One  eve,  when  Autumn  loaded  every  breeze 
With  the  fallen  honours  of  the  morning  trees. 
The  maiden  waited  at  the'  accustom'd  bower. 
And  waited  long  beyond  the'  appointed  hour. 
Yet  Bateman  came  not: — o'er  the  woodland  drear. 
Howling  portentous,  did  the  winds  career; 
And  bleak  and  dismal  on  the  leafless  woods 
The  fitful  rains  rush'd  down  in  sullen  floods; 
The  night  was  dark;  as,  now  and  then,  the  gale 
Paused  for  a  moment — Margaret  listen'd,  pale; 
But  through  the  covert  to  her  anxious  ear 
No  rustling  footstep  spoke  her  lover  near.        [why — ■ 
Strange   fears  now  fill'd  her  breast — she  knew  not 
She  sigh'd,  and  Bateman's  name  M'as  in  each  sigh. 
She  hears  a  noise, —  'tis  he, — he  comes  at  last; — 
Alas!   'twas  but  the  gale  which  hurried  past: 
But  now  she  hears  a  quickening  footstep  sound. 
Lightly  it  comes,  and  nearer  does  it  bound; 
'Tis  Bateman's  self, — he  springs  into  her  arms, 
'Tis  he  that  clasps,  and  chides  her  vain  alarms. 
'Yet  why  this  silence? — I  have  waited  long. 
And  the  cold  storm  has  yell'd  the  trees  among. 
And  now  thou'rt  here  my  fears  are  fled — yet  speak. 
Why  does  the  salt  tear  moisten  on  thy  cheek,? 
Say,  what  is  wrong?' — Now,  through  a  parting  cloud. 
The  pale  moon  peer'd  from  hdr  tempestuous  shroud. 


31  KIRKE   WHITE. 

And  Batenjan's  face  was  seen:, — 'twas  deadly  white. 

And  sorrow  seemM  to  sicken  in  his  sight. 

'  Ohy  speak,  my  love!'  again  the  maid  conjured: 

•  Why  is  thy  heart  in  sullen  woe  immured  ?' 
He  raised  his  head,  and  thrice  essay'd  to  tell. 
Thrice  from  his  lips  the'  unfinish'd  accents  fell; 
When  thus  at  last  reluctantly  he  broke 

His  boding  silence,  and  the  maid  bespoke: 

*  Grieve  not,  my  love,  but  ere  the  njorn  advance, 
I  on  these  fields  must  cast  my  parting  glance; 
For  three  long  years,  by  cruel  fate's  command, 
I  go  to  languish  in  a  foreign  land. 

Oh,  Margaret!  omens  dire  have  met  my  view, 
Say,  when  far  distant,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true  ? 
Should  honours  tempt  thee,  and  should  riches  fee, 
Wouldst  thou  forget  thine  ardent  vows  to  me, 
And,  on  the  silken  couch  of  wealth  reclined. 
Banish  thy  faithful  Bateman  from  thy  mind  ?' 

*  Oh!  why,'  replies  the  maid,  'my  faith  thus  pr«ve? 
Canst  thou — ah!  canst  thou,  then,  suspect  my  love? 
Hear  me,  just  God!  if  from  my  traitorous  heart 
My  Bateman's  fond  remembrance  e'er  shall  part, 
If,  when  he  hail  again  his  native  shore. 
He  find  his  Margaret  true  to  him  no  more. 
May  fiends  of  hell,  and  every  power  of  dread, 
Conjoin 'd,  then  drag  me  from  my  perjured  bed. 
And  hurl  me  headlong  down  these  awful  steeps, 
To  find  deserved  death  in  yonder  deeps!'* 

Thus  spake  the  maid,  and  from  her  finger  drsw 
A  golden  ring,  and  broke  it  quick  in  two; 


*  This  part  of  the  Trent  it  commonly  callsd  '  Tht  Clif 
ton  Dtept* 


KIRKE   WHITE. 


3S 


One  half  she  in  her  lovely  bosom  hides, 

The  'other,  trembling,  to  her  love  confides. 

'This  bind  the  vow,'  she  said,  'this  mystic  chaim 

No  further  recantation  can  disarm; 

The  rite  vindictive  does  the  fates  involve, 

No  tears  can  move  it,  nor  regrets  dissolve.' 

She  ceased.     The  death-bird  gave  a  dismal  cry. 
The  river  moan'd,  the  wild  gale  whistled  by. 
And  once  again  the  I<ady  of  the  Night 
Behind  a  heavy  cloud  withdrew  her  light. 
Trembling  she  view'd  these  portents  with  dismay:. 
But  gently  Bateman  kiss'd  her  fears  away: 
Yet  still  he  felt  conceal'd  a  secret  smart. 
Still  melancholy  bodings  fill'd  his  heart. 

When  to  the  distant  land  the  youth  was  sped, 
A  lonely  life  the  moody  maiden  led. 
Still  would  she  trace  each  dear,  each  well-known  walk. 
Still  by  the  moonlight  to  her  love  would  talk. 
And  fancy,  as  she  paced  among  the  trees, 
She  heard  his  whispers  in  the  dying  breeze. 
Thus  two  years  glided  on  in  silent  grief; 
The  third  her  bosom  own'd  the  kind  relief: 
Absence  had  cool'd  her  love — the'  impoveriah'd  flame 
Was  dwindling  fast,  when  lo!  the  tempter  came; 
He  offer'd  wealth,  and  ^all  the  joys  of  life. 
And  the  weak  maid  became  another's  wife! 

Six  guilty  months  had  mark'd  the  false  one's  crirn^ 
When  Bateman  hail'd  once  more  his  native  clime: 
Sure  of  her  constancy,  elate  he  came. 
The  lovely  partner  of  his  soul  to  claim: 
Light  was  his  heart, 'as  up  the  well-known  way 
He  bent  his  steps — and  all  his  thoughts  were  gay. 
Oh!  who  can  paint  his  agonizing  throes. 
When  on  his  ear  the  fatal  news  arose! 


84  KIREE  WHITE. 

ChilI'd  with  amazement,  senseless  with  the  blow. 
He  stood  a  marble  monument  of  woe; 
Till  cali'd  to  all  the  horrors  of  despair, 
He  smote  his  brow,  and  tore  his  horrent  hair; 
Then  rush'd  impetuous  from  the  dreadful  spot, 
And  sought  those  scene^  (by  memory  ne'er  forgot.) 
Those  scenes,  the  witness  of  their  growing  flame. 
And  now  like  witnesses  of  Margaret's  shame. 
'Twas  night — he  sought  the  river's  lonely  shore. 
And  traced  again  their  former  wanderings  o'er. 
Now  on  the  bank  in  silent  grief  he  stood, 
And  gazed  intently  on  the  stealing  flood; 
Death  in  his  mien  and  madness  in  his  eye, 
Ht  watch'd  the  waters  as  they  murmur'd  by; 
Bade  the  base  murderess  triumph  o'er  his  grave — 
Prepared  to  plunge  into  the  whelming  wave. 
Yet  still  he  stood  irresolutely  bent. 
Religion  sternly  stay'd  his  rash  intent. 
He  knelt. — Cool  play'd  upon  his  cheek  the  wind, 
And  fanned  the  fever  of  his  maddening  mind. 
The  willows  waved,  the  stream  it  sweetly  swept. 
The  paly  moonbeam  on  its  surface  slept, 
And  all  was  peace; — he  felt  the  general  calm 
O'er  his  rack'd  bosom  shed  a  genial  balm: 
When  casting  far  behind  his  streaming  eye. 
He  saw  the  Grove, — in  fancy  saw  her  lie, 
His  Margaret,  luil'd  in  Germain's*  arms  to  rest. 
And  all  the  demon  rose  within  his  breast. 
Convulsive  now,  he  clench'd  his  trembling  hand. 
Cast  his  dark  eye  once  more  upon  the  land, 
Then  at  one  spring  he  spurn 'd  the  yielding  bank. 
And  in  the  calm  deceitful  current  sank. 

*  Germain  is  the  traditionarv  name  of  her  huabasd. 


KIRKB  WHITE.  85 

Sad  on  the  mlitnde  of  night,  the  sound, 
As  in  the  stream  he  plunged,  was  heard  around: 
Then  all  was  still — the  wave  was  rough  no  more. 
The  river  swept  as  sweetly  as  before; 
The  willows  waved,  the  moonbeams  shone  serene. 
And  peace  returning  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 

Now,  see  upon  the  perjured  fair  one  hang 
Remorse's  gloom  and  never-ceksing  pang. 
Full  well  she  knew,  repentant  now  too  late. 
She  soon  must  bow  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate. 
But  for  the  babe  she  bore  beneath  her  breast. 
The  offended  God  prolong'd  her  life  unbless'd. 
But  fast  the  fleeting  moments  roll'd  away. 
And  near  and  nearer  drew  the  dreaded  day — 
That  day,  foredoom 'd  to  give  her  child  the  light. 
And  hurl  its  mother  to  the  shades  of  night. 
The  hour  arrived,  and  from  the  wretched  wife 
The  guiltless  baby  struggled  into  life. — 
As  night  drew  on,  around  her  bed,  a  band 
Of  friends  and  kindred  kindly  took  their  stand; 
In  holy  prayer  they  pass'd  the  creeping  time. 
Intent  to  expiate  her  awful  crime. 
Their  prayers  were  fruitless. — As  the  midnight  came, 
A  heavy  sleep  oppress'd  each  weary  frame: 
In  vain  they  strove  against  the'  o'crwhelming  load. 
Some  power  unseen  their  drowsy  lids  bestrode. 
They  slept,  till  in  the  blushing  eastern  sky 
The  blooming  morning  oped  her  dewy  eye ; 
Then  wakening  wide  they  sought  the  ravish'd  bed. 
But  loT  the  hapless  Margaret  was  fled; 
And  never  more  the  weeping  tram  were  doom'd 
To  view  the  false  one,  in  the  deeps  intomb  d. 

The  neighbouring  rustics  told  that  in  the  night 
They  h«ard  such  screams  as  froze  them  with  affirqjlit* 


36  KIRKE  WHITE. 

And  many  an  infant,  at  its  mother ""s  breast. 

Started,  dismay'd,  from  its  unthinking  rest. 

And  even  now,  upon  the  heath  forlorn. 

They  show  the  path  down  which  the  fair  was  borne. 

By  the  fell  demons,  to  the  yawning  wave — 

Her  own,  and  murder'd  lover's,  mutual  grave. 

Such  is  the  tale,  so  sad,  to  memory  dear, 
Which  oft  in  youth  has  charm'd  my  listening  ear; 
That  tale,  which  bade  me  find  redoubled  sweets 
In  the  drear  silence  of  these  dark  retreats, 
And  even  now,  with  melancholy  power. 
Adds  a  new  pleasure  to  the  lonely  hour. 
'Mid  all  the  charms  by  magic  nature  given 
To  this  wild  spot,  this  sublunary  heaven, 
With  double  joy  enthusiast  Fancy  leans 
On  the  attendant  legend  of  the  scenes. 
This  sheds  a  fairy  lustre  on  the  floods, 
And  breathes  a  mellow  gloom  upon  the  woods; 
This,  as  the  distant  cataract  swells  around, 
Gives  a  romantic  cadence  to  the  sound; 
This,  and  the  deepning  glen,  the  alley  green. 
The  silver  stream,  with  sedgy  tufts  between. 
The  massy  rock,  the  wood-encompass'd  leas. 
The  broom-clad  islands,  and  the  nodding  trees,. 
The  lengthening  vista,  and  the  present  gloom. 
The  verdant  pathway  breathing  waste  perfume; 
These  are  thy  charms,  the  joys  which  these  impart 
Bind  thee,  bless'd  Clifton!  close  around  my  heart. 

Dear  native  Grove!  where'er  my  devious  track. 
To  thee  will  Memory  lead  the  wanderer  back. 
Whether  in  Amo's  polish'd  vales  I  stray, 
Or  where  'Oswego's  swamps'  obstruct  the  day; 
Or  wander  lone,  where,  wildering  and  wide. 
The  tumbling  torrent  laves  St.  Gothaid's  side; 


KIRKE   WHITE.  37 

Or  by  old  Tejo's  classic  margent  muse, 
Or  stand  entranced  with  Pyrenean  views ; 
Still,  still  to  thee,  where'er  my  footsteps  roam, 
My  heart  shall  point,  and  lead  the  wanderer  home. 
When  Splendour  offers,  and  when  Fame  incites, 
I'll  pause,  and  think  of  all  thy  dear  delights. 
Reject  the  boon,  and,  wearied  with  the  change. 
Renounce  the  wish  which  first  induced  to  range ; 
Turn  to  these  scenes,  these  well-known  scenes  odce 

more. 
Trace  once  again  old  Trent's  romantic  shore. 
And,  tired  with  worlds,  and  all  their  busy  ways, 
Here  waste  the  little  remnant  of  my  days. 
But  if  the  Fates  should  this  last  wish  deny. 
And  doom  pie  on  some  foreign  shore  to  die ; 
Oh !  should  it  please  the  world's  supernal  King, 
That  weltering  waves  my  funeral  dirge  shall  sing". 
Or  that  my  corpse  should,  ,on  some  desert  strand. 
Lie  stretch'd  beneath  the  Simoom's  blasting  hand, 
Still,  though  unwept  I  find  a  stranger  tomb. 
My  s-iirit  shall  wander  through  this  favourite  gloom. 
Ride  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  leafless  grove. 
Sigh  on  the  wood-blast  of  the  dark  alcove. 
Sit,  a  lorn  spectre  on  yon  well-known  grave. 
And  mix  its  moanings  with  the  desert  wave. 

TO  CONSUMPTION.  * 

Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head. 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand! — let  me  decay. 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away. 

And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 

And  if  'tis  true,  what  holy  men  have  said. 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
Of  death,  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 
4 


38  KIRKE  WHITE. 

0  et  the  aerial  music, round  my  bed, 
Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony, 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear: 
That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good-by 

Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear; 
And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past. 
Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 

THE  CONSUMPTIVE  MAIDEN's  SOLILOQUT 

With*  what  a  silent  and  dejected  pace 
Dost  thou,  wan  Moon!  upon  thy  way  advance 
In  the  blue  welkin's  vault! — Pale  wanderer! 
Hast  thou,  too,  felt  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love, 
That  thus,  with  such  a  melancholy  grace. 
Thou  dost  pursue  thy  solitary  course  ? 
Has  thy  Endymion,  smooth-faced  boy,  forsook 
Thy  widow'd  breast — on  which  the  spoiler  oft 
Has  nestled  fondly,  while  the  silver  clouds 
Fantastic  pillow'd  thee,  and  the  dim  night, 
Obsequious  to  thy  will,  encurtain'd  round 
With  its  thick  fringe  thy  couch  ? — Wan  traveller. 
How  like  thy  fate  to  mine! — Yet  I  have  still 
One  heavenly  hope  remaining,  which  thou  lack 'at— 
My  woes  will  soon  be  buried  in  the  grave 
Of  kind  forgetfulness: — my  journey  here, 
Though  it  be  darksome,  joyless,  and  forlorn, 
Is  yet  but  short,  and  soon  my  weary  feet 
Will  greet  the  peaceful  inn  of  lasting  rest. 
But  thou,  imhappy  Queen!  art  doom'd  to  trace 

*  With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon  !  thou  climb'st  the  skiei. 
How  silently  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 

Sir  P.  Sidney. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  39 

Thy  lonely  walk  in  the  drear  realms'of  night. 
While  many  a  lagging  age  shall  sweep  beneath 
The  leaden  pinions  of  unshaken  time; 
Though  not  a  hope  shall  spread  its  glittering  hue 
To  cheat  thy  steps  along  the  weary  way. 

O  that  the  sum  of  human  happiness 
Should  be  so  trifling,  and  so  frail  withal, 
That  when  possess'd,  it  is  but  lessen'd  grief; 
And  even  then  there's  scarce  a  sudden  gust 
That  blows  across  the  dismal  waste  of  life, 
But  bears  it  from  the  view! — Oh  I  who  would  shun 
The  hour  that  cuts  from  earth,  and  fear  to  press 
The  calm  and  peaceful  pillows  of  the  grave. 
And  yet  endure  the  various  ills  of  life. 
And  dark  vicissitudes! — Soon,  I  hope,  I  feel. 
And  am  assured,  that  I  shall  lay  my  head. 
My  weary  aching  head,  on  its  last  rest. 
And  on  my  lowly  bed  the  grass-green  sod 
Will  flourish  sweetly. — And  then  they  will  weep 
That  one  so  young,  and  what  they  're  pleased  to  call 
So  beautiful,  should  die  so  soon — And  tell 
How  painful  Disappointment's  canker'd  fang 
Wither'd  the  rose  upon  my  maiden  cheek. 
Oh  foolish  ones!  why,  I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly. 
Laid  in  my  darksome  grave,  that  they  themselves 
Might  envy  me  my  rest! — And  as  for  them. 
Who,  on  the  score  of  former  intimacy, 
May  thus  remembrance  me — they  inust  themselres 
Successive  fall. 

Around  the  winter  fire 
(When  out-a-doors  the  biting  frost  congeals. 
And  shrill  the  skater's  irons  on  the  pool 
Ring  loud,  as  by  the  moonlight  he  performs 
His  graceful  evolutions,)  they  not  long 


40  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Shall  sit  and  chat  of  older  times  and  feats 

Of  earlier  youth,  but  silent,  one  by  one, 

Shall  drop  into  their  shrouds: — Some,  in  their  age. 

Ripe  for  the  sickle ;  others  young,  like  me, 

And,  falling  green  beneath  the'  untimely  stroke. 

Thus,  in  short  time,  in  the  churchyard  forlorn. 

Where  I  shall  lie,  my  friends  will  lay  them  down. 

And  dwell  with  me,  a  happy  family. 

And  oh!  thou  cruel,  yet  beloved  youth. 

Who  now  hast  left  me  hopeless  here  to  mourn, 

Do  thou  but  shed  one  tear  upon  my  corse. 

And  say  that  I  was  gentle,  and  deserved 

A  better  lover,  and  I  shall  forgive 

All,  all  thy  wrongs;  and  then  do  thou  forget 

The  hapless  Margaret,  and  be  as  bless'd 

As  wish  can  make  thee — Laugh,  and  play,  and  sing. 

With  thy  dear  choice,  and  never  think  of  me. 

Yet  hist,  I  hear  a  step. — In  this  dark  wood— 


TO  CONTEMPLATION. 

Come,  pensive  sage,  who  lovest  to  dwell 
In  some  retired  Lapponian  cell. 
Where,  far  from  noise  and  riot  rude. 
Resides  sequester'd  Solitude. 
Come,  and  o'er  my  longing  soul 
Throw  thy  dark  and  russet  stole. 
And  open  to  my  duteous  eyes. 
The  volume  of  thy  mysteries. 

I  will  meet  thee  on  the  hill. 
Where,  with  printless  footsteps  still. 
The  morning  in  her  buskin  gray 
Springs  upon  her  eastern  way; 


K.IRKE  WHITK.  41 

While  tFie  frolic  zephyrs  stir, 

Playing  with  the  gossamer, 

And,  on  ruder  pinions  borne. 

Shake  the  dew-drops  from  the  thorn. 

There,  as  o'er  the  fields  we  pass. 

Brushing  with  hasty  feet  the  grass, 

We  will  startle  from  her  nest 

The  lively  lark  with  speckled  breast, 

And  hear  the  floating  clouds  among 

Her  gale-tra^isported  matin  song. 

Or  on  the  upland  stile  embower'd. 

With  fragrapt  hawthorn  snowy  flower'd 

Will  sauntering  sit,  and  listen  still 

To  the  herdsmen's  oaten  quill, 

Wafted  from  the  plain  below; 

Or  the  heifer's  frequent  low; 

Or  the  milkmaid  in  the  grove. 

Singing  of  one  that  died  for  love. 

Or  when  the  noon-tide  heats  oppress. 

We  will  seek  the  dark  recess, 

Where,  ih  the  embower'd  translucent  stream. 

The  cattle  shun  the  sultry  beam. 

And  o'er  us  on  the  marge  reclined. 

The  drowsy  fly  her  horn  shall  wind, 

While  Echo,  from  her  ancient  oak, 

Shall  answer  to  the  woodman's  stroke; 

Or  the  little  peasant's  son, 

Wandering  lone  the  glens  among. 

His  artless  lip  with  berries  dyed. 

And  feet  through  ragged  shoes  descried. 
But  oh!  when  evening's  virgin  queen 

Sits  on  her  fringed  throne  serene. 

And  mingling  whispers  rising  near 

Steal  on  the  still  reposing  ear:    ' 


42  KIRKE    WHITE. 

While  distant  brooks  decaying  round. 
Augment  the  mix'd  dissolving  sound. 
And  the  zephyr  flitting  by, 
Whispers  mystic  harmony. 
We  will  seek  the  woody  lane, 
By  the  hamlet,  on  the  plain. 
Where  the  weary  rustic  nigh, 
Shall  whistle  his  wild  melody. 
And  the  croaking  wicket  oft 
Shall  echo  from  the  neighbouring  croft 
And  as  we  trace  the  green  path  lone, 
With  moss  and  rank  weeds  overgrown. 
We  will  muse  on  pensive  lore 
Till  the  full  soul,  brimming  o'er. 
Shall  in  our  upturned  eyes  appear. 
Embodied  in  a  quivering  tear. 
Or  else,  serenely  silent,  set 
By  the  brawling  rivulet, 
Which  on  its  calm  unruffled  breast 
Bears  the  old  mossy  arch  impress'd. 
That  clasps  its  secret  stream  of  glass. 
Half  hid  in  shrubs  and  waving  grass. 
The  wood-nymph's  lone  secure  retreat, 
Unpress'd  by  fawn  or  sylvan's  feet. 
We'll  watch,  in  eve's  etherial  braid, 
>     The  rich  vermilion  slowly  fade; 
Or  catch,  faint  twinkling  from  afar. 
The  first  glimpse  of  the  eastern  star. 
Fair  Vesper,  mildest  lamp  of  light. 
That  heralds  in  imperial  Night; 
Meanwhile,  upon  our  wandering  ear. 
Shall  rise,  though  low,  yet  sweetly  clear. 
The  distant  sounds  of  pastoral  lute. 
Invoking  soft  the  sober  suit 


KIRKE   WHITE.  48 

Of  dimmest  darkness — fitting  well 
"With  love,  or  sorrow's  pensive  spell, 
(So  erst  did  music's  silver  tone 
Wake  slumbering  Cliaos  on  his  throne.) 
And  haply  then,  with  sudden^swell. 
Shall  roar  the  distant  curfew  bell, 
While,  in  the  castle's  mouldering  tower. 
The  hooting  owl  is  heard  to  pour 
Her  melsfticholy  song  and  scare 
Dull  silence  brooding  in  the  air. 
Meanwhile  her  dusk  and  slumbering  car. 
Black-suited  Night  drives  on  from  far. 
And  Cynthia,  'merging  from  her  rear. 
Arrests  the  waxing  darkness  drear, 
And  summons  to  her  silent  call, 
Sweeping,  in  the  airy  pall, 
The  unshrieved  ghost,  in  fairy  trance. 
To  join  her  moonshine  morrice-dance ; 
While  around  the  mystic  ring 
The  shadowy  shapes  elastic  spring. 
Then  with  a  passing  shriek  they  fly. 
Wrapt  in  mists,  along  the  sky, 
And  oft  Eire  by  the  shepherd  seen, 
In  his  lone  night-watch  on  the  green. 

Then,  hermit,  let  us  turn  our  feet 
To  the  low  abbey's  still  retreat, 
Embower'd  in  the  distant  glen,  ~ 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  busy  men. 
Where,  as  we  sit  upon  the  tomb, 
The  glow-worm's  light  may  gild  thie  gloom. 
And  show  to  Fancy's  saddest  eye, 
Where  some  lost  hero's  ashes  lie. 
And  oh,  as  through  the  mouldering  arch. 
With  ivy  fill'd  and  weeping  larch. 


44  KIRKE    WHITK. 

The  night-gale  whispers  sadly  clear. 
Speaking  drear  things  to  Fancy's  ear. 
We'll  hold  communion  with  the  shade 
Of  some  deep-wailing,  ruin'd  maid — 
Or  call  the  ghost  of  Spenser  down, 
To  tell  of  wo  and  Fortune's  frown; 
And  bid  us  cast  the  eye  of  hope 
Beyond  this  bad  world's  narrow  scope. 
Or  if  these  joys,  to  us  denied. 
To  linger  by  the  forest's  side; 
Or  in  the  meadow,  or  the  wood. 
Or  by  the  lone,  romantic  flood; 
Let  us  in  the  busy  town. 
When  sleep's  dull  streams  the  people  drown. 
Far  from  drowsy  pillows  flee, 
And  turn  the  church's  massy  key; 
Then,  as  through  the  painted  glass 
The  moon's  faint  beams  obscurely  passj 
And  darkly  on  the  trophied  wall, 
Her  faint,  ambiguous  shadows  fall, 
Let  us,  while  the  faint  winds  wail 
Through  the  long  reluctant  aisle, 
'        As  we  pace  with  reverence  meet,  , 

Count  the  echoings  of  our  feet; 
While  from  the  tombs,  with  confess'd  breath. 
Distinct  responds  the  voice  of  death. 
If  thou,  mild  sage,  wilt  condescend 
Thus  on  my  footsteps  to  attend, 
To  thee  my  lonely  lamp  shall  bum  " 
By  fallen  Genius'  sainted  urn, 
As  o'er  the  scroll  of  time  I  pore. 
And  sagely  spell  of  ancient  lore,  ' 
Till  I  can  rightly  guess  of  all 
That  Plato  could  to  memory  call, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  46 

And  scan  the  formless  views  of  things. 
Or  with  old  Egypt's  fetter'd  kings, 
Arrange  the  mystic  trains  that  shine  - 
In  night's  high  philosophic  mine; 
And  to  thy  name  shall  e'er  belong 
The  honours  of  undying  song. 

TO  DECEMBER. 

Dark-visaged  visitor,  who  comest  here, 
Clad  in  thy  mournful  tunic,  to  repeat 
(While  glooms  and  chilling  rains  enwrap  thy  feet) 

The  solemn  requiem  of  the  dying  year. 

Not  undelightful  to  my  listening  ear, 

Sound  thy  dull  showers,  as  o'er  my  woodland  seat. 
Dismal,,  and  drear,  the  leafless  trees  they  beat. 

Not  undelightful,  in  fheir  wild  career, 

Is  the  wild  music  of  thy  howling  blasts. 

Sweeping  the  grove's  long  aisle,  while  sullen  Time 

Thy  stormy  mantle  o'er  his  shoulder  casts, 

And,  rock'd  upon  his  throne,  with  chant  sublime. 

Joins  the  full  pealing  dirge,  and  Winter  weaves 

Her  dark  sepulchral  wreath  of  faded  leaves. 

ON  THE  D^IATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

Poor  little  one  most  bitterly  did  pain, 

And  life's  worst  ills  assail  thine  early  age; 
And,  quickly  tired  with  this  rough  pilgrimage, 

Thy  wearied  spirit  did  its  heaven  regain. 

Moaning,  and  sickly,  on  the  lap  of  life 

Thou  laid'st  thine  aching  head,  and  thou  didst  sigh 

•    A  little  while,  ere  to  its  kindred  sky 

Thy  soul  return'd,  to  taste  no  more  of  strife! 

Thy  lot  was  happy,  little  sojourner! 


46  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Thou  hadst  no  mother  to  direct  thy  ways, 
And  fortune  frown'd  most  darkly  on  thy  days,. 

Short  as  they  were.     Now,  far  from  the  low  stir 
Of  this  dim  spot,  in  heaven  thou  dost  repose, 
And  look'st,  and  smil'st  on  this  world's  transient  woes. 

ODE.       ON   DISAPPOINTMENT, 
1, 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terriiies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  I  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine. 
And  round  my  brow  resigned,  thy  peaceful  cypreM 
twine. 

2. 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 

Before  thy  hollow  tread,  _ 

Fet  Meditation,  in  her  cell. 
Hears  with  faint  eye  the  lingering  knell. 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear. 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all  was  not  laid  here. 


Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurl'd. 
Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiven, 
For  thou  severe  wert  sent  from  heaven 

To  wean  me  from  the  world: 


KIRKE    WHITE.  47 

To  turn  my  eye 
From  vanity, 
And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  nevCT,  never  die. 
4. 
What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day! 
A  little  sun — a  little  rain,  , 

And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain. 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discuss'd) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 

5. 
Oh,  what  is  Beauty's  power? 

It  flourishes  and  dies; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break, 
To  tell  how  soft,  how  smooth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  Beauty's  fall; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her  pall. 
6. 
The  most  beloved  on  earth 
Not  long  survives  to-day; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete. 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet. 
But  now  'tis  gone  away: 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade. 
When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  furm  beloved  is  laid. 
7. 
Then  since  this  world  is  vain, 
And  volatile,  and  fleet, 


48  K1UK.K    VVHITi;. 

Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  dust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys. 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat  ? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill, 
When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing  heart 
be  still  ? 

8. 
Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Thou  art  not  stem  to  me ; 
Sad  Monitress!  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day,  ' 

I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
Fjom  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
1  only  bow,  and  say.  My  God,  thy  will  be  done! 

THE  DREAM. 

Fanny!  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie! 

Fanny!  thou  dost  not  hear  me  when  I  speak! 

Where  art  thou,  love  ? — Around  I  turn  my  eye. 
And  as  I  turn,  the  tear  is  on  my  cheek. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  did  my  love  behold 

Indeed  my  lonely  couch  ? — Methought  the  breath 
Fanned  not  her  bloodless  lip;  her  eye  was  cold 

And  hollow,  and  the  livery  of  death 
Invested  her  pale  forehead. — Sainted  maid! 

My  thoughts  oft  rest  with  thee  in  thy  cold  grave, 

Through  the  long  wintry  night,  when  wind  and  wave 
Rock  the  dark  house  where  thy  poor  head  is  laid. 
Yet,  hush!  my  fond  hes.rt,  hush!  there  is  a  shore 

Of  better  promise;  and  I  know  at  last, 

When  the  long  sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past. 
We  two  sha'-lmeet  in  Christ — to  part  no  more. 


KIBKE  WHITE.  49 

FOREBODINGS. 

As  thus  oppress'd  with  many  a  heavy  care, 
(Though  young  yet  sorrowful,)  I  turn  my  feet 
To  the  dark  woodland,  longing  much  to  greet 

The  form  of  Peace,  if  chance  she  sojourn  there; 

Deep  thought  and  dismal,  verging  to  despair, 

Fills  my  sad  breast;  and,  tired  with  this  vain  coil, 
I  shrink  dismay 'd  before  life's  upland  toil. 

And  as  amid  the  leaves  the  evening  air 

Whispers  still  melody — I  think  ere  long. 

When  I  no  more  can  hear,  these  woods  will  speak; 
And  then  a  sad  smile  plays  upon  my  cheek. 

And  mournful  phantasies  upon  me  throng, 
And  I  do  ponder  with  most  strange  delight 
On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  night. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

The  western  gale, 


Mild  as  the  kisses  of  connubial  love. 

Plays  round  my  languid  limbs,  as  all  dissolved. 

Beneath  the  ancient  elm's  fantastic  shade, 

I  lie,  exhausted  with  the  noon-tide  heat: 

While  rippling  o'er  his  deep-worn  pebble  bed. 

The  rapid  rivulet  rushes  at  my  feet. 

Dispensing  coolness. — On  the  fringed  marge 

Full  many  a  floweret  rears  its  head, — or  pink. 

Or  gaudy  daflbdil. — 'Tis  here  at  noon, 

The  buskin'd  wood-nymphs  from  the  heat  retire, 

And  lave  them  in  the  fountain;  here  secure 

From  Pan,  or  savage  satyr,  they  disport; 

Or  Btretch'd  supinely  on  the  velvet  turf, 

Lull'd  by  the  laden  bee,  or  sultry  fly, 

iDToke  the  god  of  slunlber.    *    ♦    • 


60  KIRKE    WHITE. 

And,  hark!  how  merrily,  from  distant  tower. 
Ring  round  the  village  bells!  now  on  the  gale 
They  rise  with  gradual  swell,  distinct  and  loud; 
Anon  they  die  upon  the  pensive  ear. 
Melting  in  faintest  music — They  bespeak 
A  day  of  jubilee,  and  oft  they  bear, 
Commix'd  along  the  unfrequented  shore. 
The  sound  of  village  dance  and  tabor  loud, 
Startling  the  musing  ear  of  Solitude.  ^ 

Such  is  the  jocund  wake  of  Whitsuntide, 
When  happy  Superstition,  gabbling  eld! 
Holds  her  unhurtful  gambols. — All  the  day 
The  rustic  revellers  ply  the  mazy  dance . 
On  the  smooth-shaven  green,  and  then  at  eve 
Commence  the  harmless  rites  and  auguries; 
And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  goes  round. 
They  tell  of  wizard  seer,  whose  potent  spells 
Could  hold  in  dreadful  thrall  the  labouring  moon, 
Or  draw  the  fix'd  stars  from  their  eminence, 
And  still  the  midnight  tempest. — Then  anon 
Tell  of  uncharnelled  spectres,  seen  to  glide 
Along  the  lone  wood's  unfrequented  path. 
Startling  the  'nighted  traveller;  while  tho  sound 
/Of  undistinguish'd  murmurs,  heard  to  come 
From  the  dark  centre  of  the  deepening  glen. 
Struck  on  his  frozen  ear. 

Oh,  Ignorance! 
'  Thou  art  fallen  man's  best  friend!  With  thee  he  speeds 
In  frigid  apathy  along  his  way, 
And  never  does  the  tear  of  agony 
Burn  down  his  scorching  cheek;  or  the  keensteol 
Of  wounded  feeling  penetrate  his  breast. 
Even  now,  as  leaning  on  this  fragrant  bank, 
I  taste  of  all  the  keener  happineBs. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  51 

Which  sense  refined  affords. — Even  now,  my  heart 

Would  fain  induce  me  to  forsake  the  world, 

Throw  off  these  garments,  and  in  the  shepherd's  weeds. 

With  a  small  flock,  and  short  suspended  reed. 

To  soJQurn  in  the  woodland. — Then  my  thought 

Draws  such  gay  pictures  of  ideal  bliss,       ' 

That  I  could  almost  err  in  reason's  spite,  • 

And   trespass  on  my  judgment. 

Such  is  life: 
The  distant  prospect  always  seems  more  fair. 
And  when  attain 'd,  another  still  succeeds, 
Far  fairer  than  before,  yet  compass'd  round 
With  the  same  dangers,  and  the  same  dismay. 
And  we  poor  pilgrims  in  this  dreary  maze. 
Still  discontented,  chase  the  fairy  form 
Of  unsubstantial  Happiness,  to  find, 
When  life  itself  is  sinking  in  the  strife, 
'Tis  but  an  airy  bubble  and  a  cheat. 

WRITTEN  AT*  TH^   GRkvE  OT  A  FRIEND. 

Fast  from  the  West  the  fading  day-streaks  fly. 

And  ebon  Night  assumes  her  solemn  sway, 
Yet  here  alone,  unheeding  time  I  lie, 

And  o'er  my  friend  still  pour  the  plaintive  lay. 
Oh!  'tis  not  long  since,  George  with  thee  I  woo'd. 

The  maid  of  musing  by  yon  moaning  wave. 
And  hail'dthe  moon's  mild  beam,  which  now  renew'd. 

Seems  sweetly  sleeping  on  thy  silent  grave! 
The  busy  world  pursues  its  boisterous  way. 

The  noise  of  revelry  still  echoes  round. 
Yet  I  am  sad  while  all  beside  is  gay — 

Yet  still  I  weep  o'er  thy  deserted  mound. 
Oh!  that,  like  thee,  I  might  bid  sorrow  cease, 
And  'neath  the  green-sward  sleep  tlie  sleep  of  peace. 


52 


KIRKE    WHITE. 


ODE,  AOBRESSED  TO  H.   FTTSELI,  ESQ.  R.  A. 

On  seeing  engravings  from  his  designs. 

Mighty  magician !  who  on  Tomeo's  brow, 

When  sullen  tempests  wrap  the  throne  of  night» 
Art  wont  to  sit  and  catch  the  gleam  of  light. 

That  shoots  athwart  the  gloom  opaque  below; 

And  listen  to  the  distant  death-shriek  long 
From  lonely  mariner  foundering  in  the  deep, 
Which  rises  slowly  up  the  rocky  steep, 

While  the  weird  sisters  weave  the  horrid  song — 
Or  when  along  the  liquid  sky 
Serenely  chaunt  the  o?bs  on  high. 
Dost  love  to  sit  in  musing  trance. 
And  mark  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
(While  far  below  the  fitful  oar 
Flings  its  faint  pauses  on  the  steepy  shore,) 
And  list  the  music  of  the  breeze, 

•    That  sweeps  by  fits  the  bending  seas; 
And  often  hears  with  sudden  swell 
The  shipwreck'd  sailor's  funeral  knell, 
By  the  spirits  sung,  who  keep 
Their  night-watch  on  the  treacherous  deep. 
And  guide  the  wakeful  helm's-man's  eye 
To  Helice  in  northern  sky — 
And  thereupon  the  rock  inclined, 
With  mighty  visions  till'st  the  mind. 
Such  as  bound  in  magic  spell 
Him*  who  grasp'd  the  gates  of  Hell, 

And  bursting  Pluto's  dark  domain. 

Held  to  the  day  the  terrors  of  his  reign — 

♦  Dante. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  63 

Genius  of  Horror  and  romantic  awe, 

Whose  eye  explores  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 

"Whose  power  can  bid  the  rebel  fluids  creep. 
Can  force  the  inmost  soul  to  own  its  law; 

Who  shall  now,  sublimest  spirit. 

Who  shall  now  thy  wand  inherit, 

From  him*  thy  darling  child  who  best 

Thy  shuddering  images  express'd? 

Sullen  of  soul,  and  stern  and  proud, 

His  gloomy  spirit  spurn'd  the  crowd. 

And  now  he  lays  his  aching  head 
In  the  dark  mansions  of  the  silent  dead. 
Mighty  magician!  long  thy  wand  has  lain 

Buried  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep; 

And  oh!  forever  must  its  efforts  sleep? 
May  none  the  mystic  sceptre  e'er  regain? 

Oh  yeSj.'tis  his! — thy  other  son;  '  '' 

He  throws  thy  dark-wrought  tunic  on, 

Fuesslin  waves  thy  wand, — again  they  rise. 

Again  thy  wildering  forms  salute  our  ravish'd  eyes. 
Him  didst  thou  cradle  on  the  dizzy  st^ep. 

Where  round  his  head  the  voUey'd  lightnings  flung. 

And  the  loud  winds  that  round  his  pillow  run, 
Woo'd  the  stem  infant  to  the  arms  of  sleepj 

Or  on  the  highest  top  of  Teneriffe 
Seated  the  foolish  boy,  and  bade  him  look 

Where,  far  below,  the  weather-beaten  skifi* 
On  the  gulf  bottom  of  the  ocean  strook. 
Thou  mark'dst  him  drink  with  ruthless  ear 

The  death-sob,  and  disdaining  rest. 
Thou  saw'st  how  danger  fired  his  breast. 
And  in  his  young  hand  couch'd  the  visionary  spear. 

*  Dante. 
5» 


54  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Then,  Superstition,  aj  thy  call. 

She  bore  the  boy  to  Odin's  Hall, 

And  set  before  his  awe-struck  sight 

The  savage  feast  and  spectred  fight; 

And  summon'd  from  his  mountain  tomb    > 

The  ghastly  warrior  son  of  gloom. 

His  fabled  Runic  rhymes  to  sing. 

While  fierce  Hresvelger  flapped  his  wing; 

Thou  show'dst  the  trains  the  shepherd  seea. 

Laid  on  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Which  on  the  mists  of  evening  gleam. 

Or  crowd  the  foaming  desert  stream; 

Lastly,  her  storied  hand  she  waves. 

And  lays  him  in  Florentian  caves; 

There  milder  fables,  lovelier  themes. 

Enwrap  his  soul  in  heavenly  dreams; 

There  Pity's  lute  arrests  his  ear. 

And  draws  the  half-reluctant  tear; 

And  now  at  noon  of  night  he  roves 

Along  the  embowering  moonlight  grovea; 

And  as  fropi  many  a  cavern' d  dell 

The  hollow  wind  is  heard  to  swell, 

He  thinks  some  troubled  spirit  sighs; 

And«as  upon  the  turf  he  lies,    ' 

Where  sleeps  the  silent  beam  of  night. 

He  sees  below  the  gliding  sprite, 

And  hears  in  Fancy's  organs  sound 

Aerial  music  warbling  round. 

Taste  lastly  comes  and  smooth's  the  whole. 

And  breathes  her  polish  o'er  his  soul; 

Glowing  with  wild,  yet  chasten'd  heat. 

The  wondrous  work  is  now  complete. 

The  Poet  dreams: — the  shadow  flies. 

And,  fainting  fast,  its  image  dies. 


KIItK£    WHITE.  66 

But  lo!  the  Painter's  magic  force      ' 

Arrests  the  phantom's  fleeting  course: 

It  lives — it  lives — the  canvass  glows. 

And  tenfold  vigour  o'er  it  flows. 
The  Bard  beholds  the  work  achieved. 

And  as  he  sees  the  shadow  rise, 

Sublime  before  his  wondering  eyes. 
Starts  at  the  image  his  own  mind  conceived. 

GENIUS.       AN  ODE. 

I.  1. 

Many  there  be,  who,  through  the  vale  of  life. 

With  velvet  pace,  unnoticed,  softly  go. 
While  jarring  discord's  inharmonious  strife 

Awakes  them  not  to  woe.      , 
By  them  unheeded,  carking  Care, 
Green-eyed  Grief,  and  dull  Despair; 
Smoothly  they  pursue  their  way, 

With  even  tenor  and  with  equal  breath. 
Alike  through  cloudy  and  through  sunny  day,  "^ 

Then  sink  in  peace  to  death. 

II.  1. 

But,  ah!  a  few  there  be  whom  griefs  devour. 

And  weeping  Woe,  and  Disappointment  keen. 
Repining  Penury,  and  Sorrow  sour. 
And  self-consuming  Spleen. 
And  these  are  Genius'  favourites:  these 
Know  the  thought-throned  mind  to  please, 
And/rom  her  fleshy  seat  to  draw 

'  To  realms  where  Fancy's  golden  orbits  roll. 
Disdaining  all  but  'wildering  Rapture's  law. 
The  captivated  soul. 


56  EIRKE  WHITE. 

III.    1. 

Genius,  from  thy  starry  throne, 

High  above  the  burning  zone. 
In  radiant  robe  of  light  array'd, 
Oh!  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favourite  made. 

His  melancholy  moan. 
He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows. 

Of  sleepless  nights,  of  anguish-ridden  days. 
Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 

To  curse  his  being  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
Thou  gavest  to  him  with  treble  force  to  feel 

The  sting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's  scorn; 
And,  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 
Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel,, 
His  high  indignant  pride. 

I.  2. 

Lament  not  ye,  who  humbly  steal  through  life. 
That  Genius  visits  not  your  lowly  shed; 
For,  ah,  what  woes  and  sorrows  ever  rife 
Distract  his  hapless  head! 
For  him  awaits  no  balmy  sleep. 
He  wakes  all  night,  and  wakes  to  weep; 
Or  by  his  lonely  lamp  he  sits 

At  solemn  midnight  when  the  peasant  sleeps 
In  feverish  study,  and  in  moody  fits 

His  inournful  vigils  keeps. 

II.  2. 

And,  oh!  for  what  consumes  the  watchful  oil* 

For  what  does  thus  he  waste  life's  fleeting  breath? 
'Tis  for  neglect  and  penury  he  doth  toil, 
'Tis  for  untimely  death. 
Lo!  where  dejected  pale  he  lies. 
Despair  depicted  in  his  eyes. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  67 

He  feels  the  vital  flame  decrease. 

He  sees  the  grave  wide-yawning  for  its  prey. 
Without  a  friend  to  soothe  his  soid  to  peace. 

And  cheer  the  expiring  ray. 

III.  2. 

By  Sulmo's  bard  of  mournful  fame, 
By  gentle  Otway's  magic  name, 
By  him,  the  youth,  who  smiled  at  death. 
And  rashly  dared  to  stop  his  vital  breath, 

Will  I  thy  pangs  proclaim; 
For  still  to  misery  closely  thou'rt  allied. 
Though  gaudy  pageants  glitter  by  thy  side. 

And  far-resounding  Fame. 
What  though  to  thee  the  dazzled  millions  bow, 
And  to  thy  posthumous  merit  bend  them  low; 
Though/unto  thee  the  monarch  looks  with  awe. 
And  thou, at  thy  flash'd  car  dost  nations  draw. 
Yet,  ah!  unseen  behind  thee  fly 

Corroding  Anguish,  soul-subduing  Pain, 
And  Discontent  that  clouds  the  fairest  sky: 
A  melancholy  train. 
Yes,  Genius,  thee  a  thousand  cares  await, 
Mocking  thy  derided  state; 
Thee  chill  Adversity  will  still  attend. 
Before  whose  fa^  flies  fast  the  summer  friend, 

'    And  leaves  thee  all  forlorn; 
While  leaden  Ignorance  rears  her  head  and  laughs. 

And  fat  stupidity  shakes  his  jolly  sides, 
And  while  the  cup  of  affluence  he  quaffs 
With  bee-eyed  Wisdom,  Genius  derides. 
Who  toils,  and  every  hardship  doth  outbrave, 
To  gain  the  meed  of  praise,  when  he  is  mouldering  in 
his  grave. 


5S  KIRSE    WHITE. 

NEGLECTED    GENIUS.* 

Go  the  the  raging  sea,  and  say,  '  Be  still!' 
Bid  the  wild  lawless  winds  obey  thy  will ; 
Preach  to  the  storm,  and  reason  with  Despair, 
But  tell  not  Misery's  son  that  life  is  fair. 

Thou,  who  in  Plenty's  lavish  lap  hast  roll'd, 

And  every  year  with  new  delight  hast  told, 

Thou,  who  recumbent  on  the  lacquer'd  barge. 

Hast  dropt  down  joy's  gay  stream  of  pleasant  marge. 

Thou  may'st  extol  life's  calm,  untroubled  sea. 

The  storm  of  misery  never  burst  on  thee. 

Go  to  the  mat,  where  squalid  Want  reclines. 
Go  to  the  shade  obscure,  where  merit  pines; 
Abide  with  him  whom  Penury's  charms  control. 
And  bind  the  rising  yearnings  of  his  soul; 
Survey  his  sleepless  couch,  and  standing  there, 
Tell  the  poor  pallid  wretch  that  life  is  fair! 

Press  thou  the  lonely  pillow  of  his  head. 
And  ask  why  sleep  his  languid  eyes  has  fled; 
Mark  his  dew'd  temples,  and  his  half  shut  eye. 
His  trembling  nostrils,  and  his  deep-drawn  sigh, 
His  muttering  mouth  contorted  with  despair. 
And  ask  if  Genius  could  inhabit  there. 


*  Written  impromptu,  on  reaidina;  the  following  passage  in 
Mr.  Capel  Lofft's  Preface  to  Nathaniel  Bloomfield's  Poems  : 
"  It  has  a  mixture  of  the  sportive,  which  deepens  the  impres- 
sion of  its  melancholy  close.  I  could  have  wished,  as  I  have 
said  in  a  short  note,  the  conclusion  had  been  otherwise. 
The  sours  of  life  less  offend  my  taste  than  its  sweets  delight 
it." 


KIRKK    WHITE.  59 

Oh,  yes!  that  sunken  eye  with  fire  once  gleam'dfc 
And  rays  of"  light  from  its  full  circlet  stream'd; 
But  now  Neglect  has  stung  him  to  the  core. 
And  Hope's  wild  raptures  thrill  his  breast  no  more: 
Domestic  Anguish  winds  his  vitals  round. 
And  added  Grief  compels  him  to  the  ground. 
Lo!  o'er  his  manly  form,  decay'd  and  wan, 
The  shades  of  death  with  gradual  steps  steal  on; 
And  the  pale  mother,  pining  to  decay. 
Weeps  for  her  boy  her  wretched  life  away. 

Go,  child  of  Fortune!  to  his  early  grave. 

Where  o'er  his  head  obscure  the  rank  weeds  wave; 

Behold  the  heart-wrung  parent  lay  her  head 

On  the  cold  turf,  and  ask  to  share  his  bed. 

Go,  child  of  Fortune,  take  thy  lesson  there. 

And  tell  us  then  that  life  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

Yet  Lofil,  in  thee,  whose  hand  is  still  stretch'd  forth. 

To'  encourage  genius,  and  to  foster  worth; 

On  thee,  the  unhappy's  firm,  unfailing  friend, 

'Tis  just  that  every  blessing  should  descend; 

*Tis  just  that  life  to  thee  should  only  show 

Her  fairer  side  but  little  mix'd  with  woe. 

GONDOIilNE.       A.  BALLAD. 

The  night  was  still,  and  the  moon  it  shone 

Serenely  on  the  sea. 
And  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  the  rifted  rock 

They  murmur'd  pleasantly, 

When  Gondoline  rcam'd  along  the  shore, 

A  maiden  full  fair  to  the  sight. 
Though  love  had  made  bleak  the  rose  on  her  cbeek« 

And  tum'd  it  to  deadly  white. 


60  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Her  thoughts  they  were  drear,  and  the  silent  tear 

H  fill'd  her  faint  bhie  eye, 
As  oft  she  heard,  in  fancy's  ear. 

Her  Bertrand's  dying  sigh. 

Her  Bertrand  was  the  bravest  youth 

Of  all  our  good  king's  men. 
And  he  was  gone  to  the  Holy  Land 
,  To  fight  the  Saracen. 

And  many  a  month  had  pass'd  away. 

And  many  a  rolling  year. 
But,  nothing  the  maid  from  Palestine 

Could  of  her  lover  hear. 

Full  oft  she  vainly  tried  to  pierce 

The  ocean's  misty  face; 
Full  oft  she  thought  her  lover's  bark 

She  on  the  wave  could  trace. 

And  every  night  she  placed  a  light 

In  the  high  rock's  lonely  tower. 
To  guide  her  lover  to  the  land. 

Should  the  murky  tempest  lower. 

But  now  despair  had  seized  her  breast. 

And  sunken  in  her  eye ; 
♦  Oh!  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  will  die.' 

She  wander'd  o'er  the  lonely  shore. 

The  Curlew  scream'd  above; 
She  heard  the  scream  with  a  sickening  heart. 

Much  boding  of  her  love. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  61 


Yet  still  she  kept  her  lonely  way. 

And  this  was  all  her  cry, 
'  Oh!  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live. 

And  I  in  peace  shall  die.' 

And  now  she  came  to  a  horrible  rift. 

All  in  the  rock's  hard  side, 
A  bleak  and  blasted  oak  overspread 

The  cavern  yawning  wide. 

And  pendent  from  its  dismal  top 
The  deadly  nightshade  hung; 

The  hemlock  and  the  aconite 
Across  the  mouth  were  flung. 

And  all  within  was  dark  and  drear. 

And  all  without  was  calm; 
Yet  Gondoline  entered,  her  soul  upheld 

By  some  deep-working  charm. 

And  as  she  enter'd  the  cavern  wide. 
The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale, 

And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock. 
It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail. 

Her  foot  it  slipped,  and  she  stood  aghast. 

She  trod  on  a  bloated  toad; 
Yet,  still  upheld  by  the  secret  charm, 

She  kept  upon  her  road.        v 

And  now  upon  her  frozen  ear 

Mysterious  sounds  arose; 
.So,  on  the  mountain's  piny  top. 

The  blustering  north  wind  blows. 
6 


C2  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Then  furious  peals  of  laughter  loud 
Were  heard  with  thundering  sound. 

Till  they  died  away  in  soft  decay. 
Low  whispering  o'er  the  ground. 

Yet  still  the  maiden  onward  went. 

The  charm  yet  onward  led. 
Though  each  big  glaring  ball  of  sight 
'      Seem'd  bursting  from  her  head. 

But  now  a  pale  blue  light  she  saw. 

It  from  a  distance  came; 
She  followed,  till  upon  her  sight 

Burst  full  a  flood  offlame. 

She  stood  appall'd;  yet  still  the  chanb 

Upheld  her  sinking  soul; 
Yet  each  bent  knee  the  other  smote, 

•  And  each  wild  eye  did  rolL 

And  sufch  a  sight  as  she  saw  there. 

No  mortal  saw  before, 
And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there. 

No  mortal  shall  see  more. 

A  burning  caldron  stood  in  the  'midst. 

The  flame  Was  fierce  and  high. 
And  all  the  cave  so  wide  and  long 

Was  plainly  seen  thereby. 

And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 
Twelve  withered  witches  stood: 

Their  waists  were  bound  with  livmg  snakef» 
And  their  hair  was  stiS"  with  blood. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  63 

Their  hands  were  gory  too ;  and  red 

And  fiercely  flamed  their  eyes; 
And  they  were  muttering  indistinct 

Their  hellish  mysteries. 

And  suddenly  they  join'd  their  hands. 

And  utter'd  a  joyous  cry, 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

And  now  they  stopped;  and  each  prepared 

To  tell  what  she  had  done, 
Since  last  the  Lady  of  the  Night 

Her  waning  course  had  run. 

Behind  a  rock  stood  Gondoline, 

Thick  weeds  her  face  did  veil,  ^ 

And  she  lean'd  fearful  forwarder. 

To  hear  the  dreadful  tale. 

The  first  arose:  She  said  she'd  seen 

Rare  sport  since  the  blind  cat  mew'd. 
She'd  been  to  sea  in  a  leaky  sieve, 

And  a  jovial  storm  had  brew'd. 

She  call'd  around  the  winged  winds. 

And  raised  a  devilish  rout; 
And  she  laugh'd  so  loud,  the  peals  were  beared 

Full  fifteen  leagues  about. 

She  said  there  was  a  little  bark 

Upon  the  roaring  wave. 
And  there  was  a  woman  there  wko'd  been 

To  see  her  husband's  grave. 


64  KIRKE    WHITE. 

And  she  had  got  a  child  m  her  arms. 

It  was  her  only  child, 
And  oft  its  little  infant  pranks 

Her  heavy  heart  beguiled. 

And  there  was,  top,  in  that  same  bark, 

A  father  and  his  son: 
The  lad  was  sickly,  and  the  sire 

Was  old  and  woe-begonc. 

And  when  the  tempest  waxed  strong. 
And  the  bark  could  no  more  it  'bide. 

She  said  it  was  jovial  fun  to  hear 
How  the  poor  devils  cried. 

The  mother  clasp'd  her  orphan  child 

Unto  her  breast  and  wept; 
And  sweetly  folded  in  her  arms 
The  careless  baby  slept. 

And  she  told  how,  in  the  shape  o'  the  wind. 

As  manfully  it  roar'd, 
She  twisted  her  hand  in  the  infant's  hair, 

And  threw  it  overboard. 

And  to  have  seen  the  mother's  pangs, 

'Twas  a  glorious  sight  to  see; 
The  crew  cohld  scarcely  hold  her  down 

From  jumping  in  the  sea. 

The  hag  held  a  lock  of  the  hair  in  her  hand, 
'  And  it  was  soft  and  fair: 
It  must  have  been  a  lovely  child. 
To  have  bad  such  lovely  hair. 


KIRKE    WHITB.  65 

And  she  said,  the  father  in  his  arms 

He  held  his  sickly  son, 
And  his  dying  throes  they  fast  arose. 

His  pains  were  nearly  done. 

And  she  throttled  the  youth  with  her  sinewy  hands. 

And  his  face  grew  deadly  blue; 
And  his  father  he  tore  his  thin  gray  hair. 

And  kiss'd  the  livid  hue. 

I  And  then  she  told,  how  she  bored  a  hole 

In  the  bark,  and  it  fill'd  away: 
And  'twas  rare  to  hear,  how  some  did  swear, 

And  some  did  vow  and  pray. 

The  man  and  woman  they  soon  were  dead. 

The  sailors  their  strcHgth  did  urge ; 
But  the  billows  that  beat  were  their  winding-shpoi. 

And  the  winds  sung  their  funeral  dirge. 

She  threw  the  iofant's  hair  in  the  fire. 

The  red  flame  flamed  high. 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  second  begun:  She  said  she  had  done 
That  task  that  Queen  Hecat'  had  set  her. 

And  that  the  devil,  the  father  of  evil, 
Had  never  accomplish'd  a  better. 

She  said,  there  was  an  aged  woman, 

And  she  had  a  daughter  fair. 
Whose  evil  habits  fill'd  her  heart        > 

With  misery  and  care- 
6* 


86  KIRKE    WHITE. 

The  daughter  had  a  paramour, 

A  wicked  man  was  he, 
^d  oft  the  woman  him  against. 

Did  murmur  grievously. 

And  the  hag  had  work'd  the  daughter  up 

To  murder  her  old  mother, 
That  then  she  might  seize  on  all  ner  goods, 

And  wanton  with  her  lover. 

And  one  night  as  the  old  woman 

Was  sick  and  ill  in  bed. 
And  pondering  solely  on  the  life 

Her  wicked  daughter  led. 

She  heard  her  footsteps  on  the  floor. 

And  she  raised  her  pallid  head. 
And  she  saw  her  daughter,  with  a  knife, 

Approaching  to  her  bed. 

And  said.  My  c'nild,  I'm  very  ill, 

I  have  not  long  to  live. 
Now  kiss  my  cheek,  that  ere  I  die 

Thy  sins  I  may  forgive. 

And  the  murderess  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek. 
And  she  lifted  the  sharp  bright  knife, 

And  the  mother  saw  her  fell  intent. 
And  hard  she  begged  for  life. 

But  prayers  would  nothing  her  avail. 
And  she  scream'd  aloud  with  fear; 

But  the  house  was  lone,  and  the  piercing  acreUM 
Could  reach  no  human  ear. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  6T 

And  though  that  she  was  sick  and  old. 

She  struggled  hard,  and  fought; 
The  murderess  cut  three  fingers  through 

Ere  she  could  reach  her  throat. 

And  the  hag  she  held  the  fingers  up. 

The  skin  was  mangled-sore. 
And  they  all  agreed  a  nobler  deed 

Was  never  done  before. 

And  she  threw  the  fingers  in  the  fire. 

The  red  flame  flamed  high. 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout . 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  third  arose:  She  said  she'd  been 

To  Holy  Palestine; 
And  seen  more  blood  in  one  short  day. 

Than  they  had  all  seen  in  nine. 

Now  Gondoline,  with  fearful  steps. 

Drew  nearer  to  the  flame, 
For  much  she  dreaded  now  to  hear 

Her  hapless  lover's  name. 

The  hag  related  then  the  sports 

Of thateventful  day, 
When  on  the  weH-contested  field 

Full  fifteen  thousand  lay. 

She  said  that  she  in  human  gore 

Above  the  knees  did  wade, 
And  that  no  tongue  could  truly  tell 

The  tricks  she  there  had  played. 


6S  KIRKK  WHITE. 

There  was  a  gallant-featured  youth, 

Who  like  a  hero  fought ;  ' 

He  kiss'd  a  bracelet  on  his  wrist, 
And  every  danger  sought. 

And  in  a  vassal's  garb  disguised. 

Unto  the  knight  she  sues. 
And  tells  him  she  from  Britain  comes, 

And  brings  unwelcome  news. 

That  three  days  ere  she  had  embark'd. 

His  love  had  given  her  hand 
Unto  a  wealthy  Thane-  -and  thought 

Him  dead  in  Holy  Land. 

And  to  have  seen  how  he  did  writhe 

When  this  her  tale  she  told, 
It  would  have  made  a  wizard's  blood    • 

Within  his  heart  run  cold. 

Then  fierce  he  spurred  his  warrior's  steed. 

And  sought  the  battle's  bed: 
And  soon,  all  mangled  o'er  with  wounds. 

He  on  the  cold  turf  bled. 

And  from  his  smoking  corse  she  tore 

His  head,  half  clove  in  two: 
She  ceased,  and  from  beneath  her  garb 

The  bloody  trophy  drew. 

The  eyes  were  starting  from  their  socks. 
The  mouth  it  ghastly  grinned. 

And  there  was  a  gash  across  the  brow. 
The  scalp  was  nearly  skinned. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  69 

'Twas  Bertrand's  Head!!  With  a  terrible  scream, 

The  maiden  gave  a  spring,     . 
And  from  her  fearful  hiding-place 

She  fell  into  the  ring. 

The  lights  were  fled— the  caldron  sunk —    ^ 

Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came 

Resounding  through  the  gloom. 

Insensible  the  maiden  lay 

Upon  the  hellish  ground, 
And  still  mysterious  sounds  were  heard 

At  hitervals  around. 

She  woke — she  half  arose — and  wild. 

She  cast  a  horrid  glare: 
The  sounds  had  ceased,  the  lights  had  fled. 

And  all  was  stillness  there. 

And  through  an  awning  in  the  rock,  , 

The  moon  it  sweetly  shone,  .. 
Andshow'd  a  river  in  the  cave, 

"Which  dismally  did  moan. 

The  stream  was  black,  it  sounded  deep. 

As  it  rush'd  the  rock's  between. 
It  offer'd  well,  for  ma'dness  fired 

The  breast  of  Gondoline, 

She  plunged  in,  the  torrent  moan'd 

With  its  accustom 'd  sound. 
And  hollow  peals  of  laugh»;pr  loud 

Again  rebellow'd  round. 


70  K.IKKE  WKITE. 

The  maid  was  seen  no  more. — But  oft 

Her  ghost  is  known  to  glide, 
At  midnight's  silent,  solemn  hour. 

Along  the  ocean's  side. 

ODE,  TO  THE  HARVEST  MOOIT. 

Cum  ruit  imbriferum  ver: 


Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
Frumenta  in  viridi  stipula  lactentia  turgent: 

Cuncta  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret. 

TiRGII. 

Moon  of  harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labour's *child. 
Hail!  oh  hail!  I  greet  thy  beam. 
As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream. 
And  gilds  the  straw-thatch 'd  hamlet  wide, 
■    Where  innocence  and  peace  reside;  ' 

'Tis  thou  that  glad'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng. 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  the  exhilarating  Bongt 

Moon  of  Harvest,  I  do  love 

O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove. 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 

Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 

In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky. 
Where  no  thin  vapour  intersects  thy  ray. 
Bat  in  imclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way 

Pleasing  'tis,  oh!  modest  Moon! 
Now  the  night  is  at  her  noon. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  71 

'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie. 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Fanning  soft  the  sun-tanned  wheatj* 
Ripen'd  by  the  summer's  heat; 

Picturing  'all  the  rustic's  joy  i 

When  boundless  plenty  graets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon. 

Oh!  modest  moon! 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road. 

To  see  the  load. 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest-home. 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains. 

Stem  despoilers  of  the  plains. 

Hence  away,  the  season  flee. 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity: 

May  no  winds,  careering  high. 

Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky, 
But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon. 
When   in   the   heavens  thou   show'st   thy  face,  oh, 
Harvest  Moon! 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies. 
The  husbandman,  with  sleep-seal'd  eyes; 
He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound; 
Oh!  may  no  hurricane  destroy 
His  visionary  views  of  joy! 
God  of  the  winds!  oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer. 
And  while  the  Moon  of  harvest  shines,  thy  blustering 
whirlwind  spare. 


72  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 

Leave  I  Sleep's  dull  power  to  woo: 

Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed, 

While    feverish  dreams  surround  your  head; 

I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade, 

Penetrate  the  thickest  shade. 

Wrapped  in  Contemplation's  dreams. 

Musing  high  on  holy  themes. 

While  on  the  gale 

Shall  softly  sail    * 
The  nightingale's  ench^ting  tune, 

And  oft  my  eyes 

Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon! 

THE  HEI^MIT  OF  THE   DALE. 

Where  yonder  woods  in  gloomy  pomp  arise, 
Embower'd,  romote,  a  lowly  cottage  lies; 
Before  the  door  a  garden  spreads,  where  blows 
Now  wild,  once  cultivate,  the  brier  rose; 
Though  choked  with  weeds,  the  lily  there  will  peer. 
And  early  primrose  hail  the  nascent  year; 
There  to  the  Walls  did  jessamine  wreaths  attach. 
And  many  a  sparrow  twitter'd  in  the  thatch, 
While  in  the  woods  that  wave  their  heads  on  high 
The  stock-dove  warbled  murmuring  harmony. 

There,  buried  in  retirement,  dwelt  a  sage, 
Whose  reverent  locks  bespoke  him  far  in  age ; 
Silent  he  was,  and  solemn  was  his  mien, 
And  rarely  on  his  cheek  a  smile  was  seen. 
The  village  gossips  had  full  many  a  tale 
About  the  aged  "hermit  of  the  dale:^' 
Some  called  him  wizard,  some  a  holy  seer. 
Though  all  beheld  him  with  an  equal  fear. 


KIRK£    WHITE.  ,  7S 

And  many  a  stout  heart  had  he  put  to  flight. 
Met  in  the  gloomy  wood-walks  late  at  night. 

Yet  well,  I  ween,  the  sire  was  good  of  heart, 
Nor  could  to  aught  one  heedless  pang  impart; 
His  soul  was  gentle,  but  he'd  known  of  woe. 
Had  known  the  world,  nor  longer  wish'd  to  know. 
Here,  far  retired  from  all  its  busy  ways,  ' 

He  hoped  to  spend  the  remnant  of  his  days; 
And  here,  in  peace,  he  till'd  his  little  ground, 
And  saw,  unheeded,  years  revolving  round. 
Fair  was  his  daughter  as  the  blush  of  day. 
In  her  alone  his  hopes  and  wishes  lay; 
His  only  care,  about  her  future  life. 
When  death  should  call  him  from  the  haunts  of  strifb. 
Sweet  was  her  temper,  mild  as  summer  skies. 
When  o'er  their  azure  no  thin  vapour  flies; 
And  but  to  see  her  aged  father  sad. 
No  fear,  no  care,  the  gentle  Fanny  had. 

Still  at  her  wheel  the  live-long  day  she  sung. 
Till  with  the  sound  the  lonesome  woodlands  rung. 
And,  till  usurp'd,  his  long  unquestion'd  sway 
The  solitary  bittern  wing'd  its  way. 
Indignant  rose,  on  dimal  pinions  borne. 
To  find,  untrod  by  man,  some  waste  forlorn; 
Where,  unmolested,  he  might  hourly  wail, 
And  with  his  screams  still  load  the  heavy  gale. 

Once  as  I  stray'd  at  eve  the  woods  among, 
To  pluck  wild  strawberries,  I  heard  her  song; 
And  heard,  enchanted — oh!  it  was  so  soft, 
So  sweet,  I  thought  the  cherubim  aloft. 
Were  quiring  to  the  spheres.     Now  the  full  note 
Did  on  the  downy  wings  of  silence  float 
Full  on  the  ravish'd  sense,  then  died  away. 
Distantly  on  the  ear,  in  sweet  decay. 
7 


•■74  KIREE    WHITE. 

Then  first  i  Knew  the  cot;  the  simple  pair; 
Though  soon  become  a  welcome  inmate  there: 
At  eve,  I  still  would  fly  to  hear  the  lay, 
Which  Fan"hy  to  her  lute  was  wont  to  play; 
Or  with  the  Sire,  would  sit  and  talk  of  war — 
For  wars  he'd  seen,  and  bore  full  many  a  scar— ^ 
And  oft  the  plan  of  gallant  siege  he  drew, 
And  loved  to  teach  me  all  the  arts  he  knew. 


HTMN    FOR    FAMILT    WORSHIP. 
I. 

^G  Lord,  another  day  is  flown. 

And  we,  a  lonely  band, 
Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne. 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

II. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a  listening  ear 

To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 
Tbou  wilt!  for  thou  dost  love  to  hear 

The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

III. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  wilt  deign, 

A',  we  befor'i  thee  pray; 
For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train. 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

IV 

0  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part. 
And  let  contention  cease; 

And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart     ' 
Thine  everlasting  peace! 


KIRKE    WHITE.  76 

V. 

Thus  chasten'd  cleansed,  entirely  thine', 

A  flock  by  Jesus  led,     . 
The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine 

In  glory  on  our  head. 

VI. 

And  thou  wilt  turn  our/wandering  feet. 

And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way. 
Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet  ■ 

The  dawh  of  lasting  day. 


Through  sorrow's  night,  and  danger's  patby 

Amid  the  deepening  gloom. 
We,  soldiers  of  an  injured  king. 

Are  marching  to  the  tomb. 

There,  where  the  turmoil  is  no  more. 

And  all  our  powers  decay. 
Our  cold  remains  in  solitude 

Shall  sleep  the  years  away. 

Our  labours  done,  securely  laid 

In  this  oiu-  last  retreat. 
Unheeded,  o'er  our  silent  dust. 

The  storms  of  earth  shall  beat. 

Yet  not  thus  lifeless,  thus  inane, 

^he  vital  spark  shall  lie. 
For  o'er  life's  wreck  that  spark  shall  rise 
To  seek  its  kindred  sky. 


76  KIREB  WHITX. 

These  ashes  too,  this  little  dust,  . 

Our  Father's  care  shall  keep, 
Till  the  last  angel  rise,  and  break 

The  long  and  dreary  sleep. 

Then  love's  soft  dew  o'er  every  eye 

Shall  shed  its  mildest  rays. 
And  the  long  silent  dust  shall  burst 

With  shouts  of  endless  praise. 

ODE   TO  LIBERTY. 

Hence  to  thy  darkest  shades,  dire  Slavery,  hence! 

Thine  icy  touch  can  freeze. 

Swift  as  the  polar  breeze. 
The  proud  defying  port  of  human  sense. 

Hence  to  thine  Indian  cave, 
To  where  the  tall  canes  whisper  o'er  thy  nest. 

Like  the  murmuring  wave 
Swept  by  the  dank  wing  of  the  rapid  west; 

And  at  the  night's  still  noon. 
The  lash'd  Angolan,  in  his  grated  cell, 

Mix'd  with  the  tiger's  yell. 
Howls  to  the  dull  ear  of  the  silent  moon. 

But  come,  thou  goddess,  blithe  and  free. 
Thou  mountain-maid,  sweet  Liberty! 
With  buskin'd  knee,  and  bosom  bare. 
Thy  tresses  floating  in  the  air; 
Come, — and  treading  on  thy  feet. 
Independence  let  me  meet. 
Thy  giant  mate,  whose  awful  form 
Has  often  braved  the  bellowing  storm; 
And  heard  its  angry  spirit  shriek, 
Rear'd  on  some  promontory's  beak. 


KIRKB  WHITE.  77 

Seen  by  the  lonely  fisher  far, 
By  the  glimpse  of  flitting  star,' 
His  awful  bulk,  in  dusky  shroud. 
Commixing  with  the  pitchy  cloud;' 
While  at  his  feet  the  lightnings  play. 
And  the  deep  thunders  die  away. 
Goddess,  come,  and  let  us  sail 
On  the  fresh  reviving  gale; 
O'er  dewy  lawns,  and  forests  lone. 
Till  lighting  on  some  mountain  stone. 
That  scales  the  circumambient  sky. 
We  see  a  thousand  nations  lie. 
From  Zembla's  snows  to  Afric's  heat. 
Prostrate  beneath  our  frolic  feet. 

From  Italy's  luxuriant  plains, 
Where  everlasting  summer  reigns,  • 

Why,  goddess,  dost  thou  turn  away  ? 
Didst  thou  never  sojourn  there  ? 
Oh,  yes,  thou  didst — but  fallen  is  Rome, 
The  pilgrim  weeps  her  silent  doom. 
As  at  midnight  murmuring  low. 
Along  the  mouldering  portico. 
He  hears  the  desolate  wind  career, 
While  the  rank  ivy  whispers  near. 

Ill-fated  Gaul!  ambition's  grasp 
Bids  thee  again  in  slavery  gasp; 
Again  the  dungeon  walls  resound 
The  hopeless  shriek,  the  groan  profound. 
But,  lo,  in  yonder  happy  skies, 
Helvetia's  airy  mountains  rise. 
And,  oh,  on  her  tall  cliffs  reclined. 
Gay  Fancy,  whispering  to  the  mind, 
7* 


78  KIRKE    WHITE 

As  the  wild  herdsman's  call  is  heard. 

Tells  me,  that  she,  o'er  all  preferred. 

In  every  clime,  in  every  zone. 

Is  liberty's  divinest  throne. 

Yet,  whence  that  sigh  ?  O  goddess,  say. 

Has  the  tyrant's  thirsty  sway 

Dared  profane  the  sacred  seat, 

Thy  long  high-favour'd,  best  retreat  ? 

It  has!  it  has!  away,  away. 

To  where  the  green  isles  woo  the  day. 

Where  thou  art  still  supreme,  and  where 

Thy  paeans  fill  the  floating  air. 


TO    LOTB. 

I. 

Vhy  should  I 'blush  to  own  I  love  ? 
'Tis  Love  that  rules  the  realms  above 
Why  should  I  blush  to  say  to  all. 
That  virtue  holds  my  heart  in  thrall  ? 

II. 

Why  should  I  seek  the  thickest  shade. 
Lest  Love's  dear  secret  be  betray'd? 
Why  the  stem  brow  deceitful  move. 
When  I  am  languishing  with  love  ? 

m. 

Is  it  weakness  thus  to  dwell 
On  passion  that  I  dare  not  tell  ? 
Such  weakness  I  would  ever  prove; 
'Tis  painful,  though  'tis  sweet,  to  loT*. 


KISKE  WHITE.  79 


THE    liXJLLABY. 

Of  a  Female  Convict  to  her  Child,  the  JSTight  pre' 
vious  to  Execution. 

Sleep,  baby  mine,*  enkerchieft  on  my  bosom. 
Thy  cries  they  pierce  again  my  bleeding  breast; 

Sleep,  baby  mine,  not  long  thou'lt  have  a  mother 
To  lull  thee  fondly  in  her  arms  to  rest. 

Baby,  why  dost  thou  keep  this  sad  complaining  ? 

Long  from  mine  eyes  have  kindly  slumbers  fled; 
Hush,  hush,  my  babe,  the  night  is  quickly  waning. 

Ana  I  would  fain  compose  my  aching  head. 

Poor  way  Ward  wretch!  and  who  will  heed  thy  weeping. 
When  soon  an  outcast  on  the  world  thou'lt  be: 

Who  then  will  soothe  thee,  when  thy  mother's  sleeping 
In  her  low  grave  of  shame  and  infamy! 

Sleep,  baby  mine — To-morrow  I  must  leave  thee 
And  I  would  snatch  an  interval  of  rest: 

Sleep  these  last  moments,  ere  the  laws  bereave  thee. 
For  never  more  thou'lt  press  a  mother's  breast. 

MAN  THE  WORST  ENEMY  OF  MAN. 

In  every  clime,  from  Lapland  to  Japan, 

This  truth's  confess'd — That  man's  worst  foe  is  man. 

The  ravening  tribes,  that  crowd  the  sultry  zone. 

Prey  on  all  kinds  and  colours  but  their  own. 

Lion  with  lion  herds,  and  pard  with  pard, 

Instinct's  first  law  their  covenant  and  guard. 

*  Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  a  poem  beginning  "  Sleep,  Baby 
mine." 


80  EIRKE    WHITE. 

But  man  alone,  the  lord  of  every  clime, 
Whose  port  is  godlike,  and  whose  power  sublime, 
Man,  at  whose  birth  the'  Almighty  hand  stood  still. 
Pleased  with  the  last  great  effort  of  his  will; 
'Man,  man  alone,  no  tenant  of  the  wood, 
Preys  on  his  kind,  and  laps  his  brother's  blood; 
His  fellow  leads,  where  hidden  pit-falls  lie, 
And  drinks  with  ecstasy  his  dying  sigh. 

ODE    TO  MIDNIGHT. 

Season  of  general  rest,  whose  solemn  still 
Strikes  to  the  trembling  heart  a  fearful  chill, 
^    But  speaks  to  philosophic  souls  delight, 
Thee  do  I  hail,  as  at  my  casement  liigh, 
My  candle  waning  melancholy  by, 

I  sit  and  t£iste  the  holy  calm  of  night. 
Yon  pensive  orb,  that  through  the  ether  sails. 
And  gilds  the  misty  shadows  of  the  vales. 

Hanging  in  thy  dull  rear  her  vestal  flame. 
To  her,  while  all  around  in  sleep  recline. 
Wakeful  I  raise  my  orisons  divine. 

And  sing  the  gentle  honours  of  her  name; 
While  Fancy  lone  o'er  me  her  votary  bends. 
To  lift  my  soul  her  fairy  vision  sends. 

And  pours  upon  my  ear  her  thrilling  song. 
And  Superstition's  gentle  terrors  come. 
See,  see  yon  dim  ghost  gliding  through  the  gloom! 

See  round  yon  churchyard  elm  what  spectres  throng! 
Meanwhile  I  tune  to  some  romantic  lay 
My  flageolet — and,  as  I  pensive  play. 

The  sweet  notes  echo  o'er  the  mountain  scene: 
The  traveller  late  journeying  o'er  the  moors 
Hears  them  aghast — (while  still  the  dull  owl  pours 
Her  hollow  screams  each  dreary  pause  between,) 


KIRKE  WHITE.  81 

Till  in  the  lonely  tower  he  spies  the  light 
Now  faintly  flashing  on  the  glooms  of  night. 

Where  I,  poor  muser,  my  lone  vigils  keep, 
And  'mid  the  dreary  solitude,  serene, 
Cast  a  much  meaning  glance  upon  the  scene. 

And  raise  my  mournful  eye  to  heaven,  and  weep. 

FRAGMENT    OF    AN    ODE    TO    THE   MOON. 
I. 

Mild  orb,  who  floatest  through  the  realm  of  night, 

A  pathless  wanderer  o'er  a  lonely  wild. 
Welcome  to  me  thy  soft  and  pensive  light. 

Which  oft  in  childhood  my  lone  thoughts  beguiled 
Now  doubly  dear  as  o'er  my  silent  seat. 
Nocturnal  Study's  still  retreat. 
It  casts  a  momrnful  melancholy  gleam, 

And  through  my  lofty  casement  weaves. 
Dim  through  the  vine's  encircling  leaves. 
An  intermingled  beam. 

II. 

These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang, 

This  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame: 
These  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang. 

These  are  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  fame ! 
Pale  Moon,  from  thoughts  like  these  divert  my  soul; 

Lowly  I  kneel  before  thy  shrine  ,on  high; 
My  lamp  expires; — Beneath  thy  mild  control. 

These  restless  dreams  are  ever  wont  to  fly. 

Come,  kindred  mourner,  in  my  breast 
Soothe  these  discordant  tones  to  rest. 


82  /  KIRKE    WHITE^ 

And  breathe  the  soul  of  peace; 
Mild  vrsitor,  I  feel  thee  here, 
It  is  not  pain  that  brings  this  tear, 

For  thou  hast  bid  it  cease. 

Oh!  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away 
Since  I,  beneath  thy  fairy  ray, 

Attuned  my  infant  reed; 
When  wilt  thou,  Time,  those  days  restore. 
Those  happy  moments  now  no  more — 

When  on  the  lake's  damp  marge  I  lay, 

And  mark'd  the  northern  meteor's  dance^ 
Bland  Hope  and  Fancy,  ye  were  there 
To  inspirate  my  .trance. 

Twin  sisters,  faintly  now  ye  deign 
Your  magic  sweets  on  me  to  shed; 
In  vain  your  powers  are  now  essay'd 
To  chase  superior  pain. 

And  art  thou  fled,  thou  welcome  orb  ? 

So  swiftly  pleasure  flies; 
So  to  mankind,  in  darkness  lost,  , 

The  beam  of  ardour  dies.    . 
Wan  Moon,  thy  nightly  task  is  done. 
And  now,  encurtain'd  in  the  main. 

Thou  sinkest  into  rest; 
But  I,  in  vain,  on  thorny  bed 

Shall  woo  the  god  of  soft  repose — 


TO    THE    MOON.       WIIITTEN    IN    NOVEMBER. 

Sublime,  emerging  from  the  misty  verge 
Of  the  horizon  dim,  thee.  Moon  I  hail. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  83 

As  sweeping  o'er  the  leafless  grove,  the  gale 
Seems  to  repeat  the  year's  funeral  dirge. 
Now  Autumn  sickens  on  the  languid  sight. 

And  leaves  bestrew  the  wanderer's  lonely  way. 
Now  unto  thee,  pale  ari)itress  of  night. 

With  double  joy  my  homage  do  I  pay. 

When  clouds  disguise  the  glories  of  the  day. 
And  stern  November  sheds  her  boisterous  blight. 

How  doubly  sweet  to  mark  the  moony  ray 
Shoot  through  the  mist  from  the  ethereal  height, 

And,  still  unchanged,  back  to  the  memory  bring 

The  smiles  Favonian  of  life's  earliest  spring. 

MOONLIGHT    IN    EGYPT. 

How  beautiful  upon  the  element 

The  Egyptian  moonlight  sleeps; 
The  Arab  on  the  bank  hath  pitch'd  his  tent; 

The  light  wave  dances,  sparkling  o'er  the  deeps; 
The  tall  reeds  whisper  in  the  gale, 
And  o'er  the  distant  tide  moves  slow  the  silent  sail. 

Thou  mighty  Nile!  and  thou  receding  main. 
How  peacefully  ye  rest*upon  your  shores. 
Tainted  no  more,  as  when  from  Cairo's  towers, 
Holl'd  the  swoln  corse  by  plague!  the  monster!  slain 
Far  as  the  eye  can  see  around. 
Upon  the  solitude  of  waters  wide, 
There  is  no  sight,  save  of  the  restless  tide- 
Save  of  the  winds,  and  waves,  there  is  no  sound. 

Egyptia  sleeps,  her  sons  in  silence  sleep! 

Ill-fated  land,  upon  thy  rest  they  come— 
The'  invader,  and  his  host.     Behold  the  deep 

Bears  on  her  farthest  verge  the  dusky  gloom— 


S4  KIHKE    WHITE. 

And  now  they  rise,  the  masted  forests  rise 
And  gallant,  through  the  foam,  their  way  they  makfw 
Stern  Genius  of  the  Memphian  shores,  awake — 

The  foeman  in  thy  inmost  harbour  lies, 
And  ruin  o'er  thy  land  with  brooding  pennon  flies. 

TO    THE    MORNING. 

Written  during  illness. 

Beams  of  the  day-break  faint!  I  hail 
Your  dubious  hues,  as  on  the  robe 
Of  night,  which  wraps  the  slumbering  globe, 

I  mark  your  traces  pale. 
Tired  with  the  taper's  sickly  light,  ' 

And  with  the  wearying,  number'd  night, 

I  hail  the  streaks  of  morn  divine: 
And  lo!  they  break  between  the  dewy  wreaths 
That  round  my  rural  casement  twine: 
The  fresh  gale  o'er  the  green  lawn  breathes; 
It  fans  my  feverish  brow, — it  calms  the  mental  strife. 
And  cheerily  re-illumes  the  lambient  flame  of  life. 

The  lark  has  her  gay  song  begun. 

She  leaves  her  grassy  nest, 
And  soars  till  the  unrisen  sun 

Gleams  on  her  speckled  breast. 

Now  let  me  leave  my  restless  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spangled  uplands  tread; 

Now  through  the  custom'd  wood-walk  wend; 
By  many  a  green  lane  lies  my  way. 

Where  high  o'er  head  the  wild  briers  bend, 
Till  on  the  moimtain's  summit  gray, 
I  sit  me  down,  and  mark  the  glorious  davm  of  day. 


KIRKE  WHITS.  85 

Oh,  Heaven !  the  soft  refreshing  gale 

It  breathes  into  my  breast! 
My  sunk  eye  gleams;  my  cheek,  so  pale, 

Is  with  new  colours  dress'd. 
Blithe  Health!  thou  soul  of  life  and  ease! 
Come  thou  too,  on  the  balmy  breeze, 

^Invigorate  my  frame: 
I'll  join  with  thee  the  buskin'd  chase, 
With  thee,  the  distant  clime  will  trace, 

Beyond  those  clouds  of  flame. 
Above,  below,  what  charms  unfold 

In  all  the  varied  view;  ' 

Before  me  all  is  burnish'd  gold. 

Behind  the  twilight's  hue. 
The  mists  which  on  old  Night  await. 
Far  to  the  west  they  hold  their  state. 

They  shun  the  clear  blue  face  of  Mom; . 

Along  the  fine  cerulian  sky, 

Thp  fleecy  clouds  successive  fly,  [adorn, 

^hile  bright   prismatic  beams   their  shadowy   folds 
And  hark!  the  thatcher  has  begun 

His  whistle  on  the  eaves. 
And  oft  the  hedger's  bill  is  heard 

Among  the  rustling  leaves. 
The  slow  team  cracks  upon  the  road. 

The  noisy  whip  resounds, 
The  driver's  voice,  his  carol  blithe. 
The  mower's  stroke,  his  whetting  sythe, 

Mix'd  with  the  morning's  sounds. 
Who  would  not  rather  take  his  seat 

Beneath  these  clumps  of  trees, 
The  early  dawn  of  day  to  greet. 

And  catch  the  healthy  breeze, 
8 


86  KIKKE    WHITE. 

Than  on  the  silent  couch  of  Sloth 

Luxurious  to  lie  ? 
Who  would  not  from  life's  dreary  waste 
Snatch,  when  he  could,  with  eager  haste, 

An  interval  of  joy  ? 

To  him  who  simply  thus  recounts 

The  morning's  pleasures  o'er, 
Fate  dooms,  ere  long,  the  scene  must  cIoM 

To  ope  on  him  no  more. 
Yet,  Morning!  imrepining  still, 

He'll  greet  thy  beams  awhile; 
And  surely  thou,  when  o'er  his  grave  ' 

Solemn  the  whispering  willows  wave. 

Wilt  sweetly  on  him  smile ; 
And  the  pale  glow-worm's  pensive  light        [night. 
Will  guide  his  ghostly  walks  in  the  drear  moonless 

ODE    TO    THE    MORNIN  G '  STAR. 

Many  invoke  pale  Hesper's  pensive  sway. 

When  rest  supine  leanis  o'er  the  pillowing  clouds,       ' 

And  the  last  tinklings  come 

From  the  safe-folded  flock. 

But  me,  bright  harbinger  of  coming  day. 
Who  shone  the  first  on  the  primaeval  mom; 

Me  thou  delightest  more — 

Chastely  luxuriant. 

liet  the' poor  silken  sons  of  slothful  pride 
Prese  now  their  downy  couch  in  languid  easet 

While  visions  of  dismay  ' 

Flit  o'er  their  troubled  brain. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  87 

Be  mine  to  view    awake  to  nature's  charms. 
Thy  paly  flame  evanish  from  the  sky, 

As  gradual  day  usurps 

The  welkin's  glowing  bovmds. 

Mine  to  snuff  up  the  pure  ambrosial  breeze 
Which  bears  aloft  the  rose-bound  car  of  mom. 

And  mark  his  early  flight 

The  rustling  sky-lark  wing. 

And  thou,  Hygeia,  shalt  my  steps  attend. 
Thou,  whom  distracted,  I  so  lately  wooed 

As  on  my  restless  bed 

Slow  past  the  tedious  night; 

And  slowly,  by  the  taper's  sickly  gleam 
Drew  my  dull  curtain;  and  with  anxious  eye 

Strove  through  the  veil  of  night 

To  mark  the  tardy  mom. 

Thou,  Health,  shalt  bless  me  in  my  early  wajk. 
As  o'er  the  upland  slope  I  brush  the  dew. 

And  feel  the  genial  thrill 

Dance  in  my  lighten 'd  veins. 

And  as  I  mark  the  Cotter  from  his  shed 

Peep  out  with  jocund  face — thou,  too.  Content, 

Shalt  steal  into  my  breast. 

Thy  mild,  thy  placid  sway. 

Star  of  the  morning!  these,  thy  joys,  I'll  share. 
As  rove  my  pilgrim  feet  the  sylvan  haunts; 

While  to  thy  blushing  shrine 

Due  orisons  shall  rise. 


86  KIBKS    WRITE. 

MUSIC. 

O  give  me  music — for  my  soul  doth  faint; 

I  am  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  eai 
Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dyijig  plaint. 

That  may  the  spirit  from  its  cell  unsphere. 

Hark  how  it  falls!  and  now  it  steals  along. 
Like  distant  belle  upon  the  lake  at  eve, 

When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong. 
As  when  the  coral  train  their  dirges  weave. 

Mellow  and  many-voiced;  where  every  close. 

O'er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  reflowi. 

Oh!  I  am  rapt  aloft.     My  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind. 

Lo!  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 
And  floating  paeans  fill  the  buoyant  wind. 

Farewell!  base  earth,  farewell!  my  soul  is  freed. 

Far  from  its  clayey  cell  it  springs — 


THE    MUSIC    OF    THE    8PHEBE8. 

Who  is  it  leads  the  planets  on  their  dance — 
The  mighty  sisterhood  ?     Who  is  it  strikes 
The  harp  of  universal  harmony  ? 

Hark!  'tis  the  voice  of  planets  on  their  danca. 
Led  by  the  arch-contriver.     Beautiful 
The  harmony  of  order!     How  they  sing! 
The  regulated  orbs  upon  their  path 
Through  the  wide  trackless  ether  sing,  as  though 
A  siren  sat  upon  each  glittering  gem, 
A.nd  made  fair  music — such  as  mortal  hand 
Ne'er  raised  on  the  responding  chords;  more  like 


KIRKE  WHITE.  89 

The  mystic  melody  that  oft  the  bard-^ 
Hears  in  the  strings  of  the  suspended  harp, 
Touch'd  by  some  unknown  beings  that  reside 
In  evening  breezes,  or,  at  dead  of  night, 
"Wake  in  the  long,  shrill  pauses  of  the  wind. 

This  is  the  music  which,  in  ages  hushed, 
Ere  the  Assyrian  quaffed  his  cups  of  blood. 
Kept  the  lone  Chald  awake,  when  through  the  night 
He  watch'd  his  herds.     The  solitary  man, 
By  frequent  meditation,  learned  to  spell 
Yon  sacred  volume  of  high  mystery. 
He  could  arrange  the  wandering  passengers. 
From  the  pale  star,  first  on  the  silent  brow 
Of  the  meek-tressed  Eve,  to  him  who  shines, 
Son  of  the  morning,  orient  Lucifer: 
Sweet  were  to  him;  in  that  unletter'd  age. 
The  openings  of  wonder.  •  He  could  gaze 
Till  his  whole  soul  was  fill'd  with  mystery. 
And  every  night  wind  was  a  spirit's  voice. 
And  every  far-off  mist,  a  spirit's  form: 
So  with  fables,  and  wild  romantic  dreams 
He  mix'd  his  truth,  and  couch'd  in  symbols  dark. 
Hence,  blind  idolatry  arose,  and  men 
Knelt  to  the  sun,  or  at  the  dead  of  night 
Pour'd  their  orisons  to  the  cloud-wrapt  moon. 
Hence,  also,  after  ages  into  stars 
Transform'd  their  heroes;  and  the  warlike  chief. 
With  fond  eye  fix'd  oh  some  resplendent  gem. 
Held  converse  with  the  spirits  of  his  sires: — 
With  other  eyes  than  these  did  Plato  view 
The  heavens,  and,  fill'd  with  reasonings  sublime, 
Half-pierced,  at  intervals,  the  mystery, 
Which  with  the  gospel  vanish'd,  and  made  way 
For  noon-day  brightness.        *        ♦        •        • 
8« 


JM>  KIRKB  WHITS. 

MtrsiNGS    AT    NIGHT. 

0  pale  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint 

Thy  melancholy  ray: 
When  the  still  night's  unclouded  saint 

Is  walking  on  her  way. 
Through  my  lattice  leaf-embower'd, 
Fair  she  sheds  her  shadowy  beam, 
And  o'er  my  silent  sacred  room. 
Casts  a  checker'd  twilight  gloom; 
I  throw  aside  the  learned  sheet, 

1  cannot  choose  but  gaze,  she  looks  so  mildly  sweet 

Sad  vestal,  why  art  thou  so  fair, 
Or  why  am  I  so  frail  ? 

Methinks  thou  lookest  kindly  on  me,  Moon, 

And  cheerest  my  lone  hours  with  sweet  regards  * 
Surely  like  me  thou'rt  sad,  but  dost  not  speak 

Thy  sadness  to  the  cold  unheeding  crowd; 
So  mournfully  composed,  o'er  yonder  cloud 
Thou  shinest,  like  a  cresset,  beaming  far 
From  the  rude  watch-tower,  o'er  the  Atlantic  w^yOt 


NELSONI    MORS. 

Yet  once  again,  my  Harp,  yet  once  again. 
One  ditty  more,  and  on  the  mountain  ash 
I  will  again  suspend  thee.     I  have  felt 
The  warm  tear  frequent  on  my  cheek,  since  last, 
At  eventide,  when  all  the  winds  were  hush'd, 
I  woke  to  thee  the  melancholy  song. 
Since  then  with  ThoughtfulnetD,  a  maid  severe, 
I've  journey'd,  and  have  JmrnM  to  shape  the  fre&ka 
Of  frolic  fancy  to  the  line  of  truth; 


kike:£  white.  91 

Not  unrepining,  for  my  froward  heart 
Still  turns  to  thee,  mine  Harp,  and  to  the  flow 
Of  spring-gales  past — the  woods  and  storied  haunts 
Of  my  not  songlcss  boyhood. — Yet  once  more, 
Not  fearless,  I  will  walce  thy  tremulous  tones. 
My  long  neglected  Harp. — He  must  not  sink; 
The  good,  the  brave — he  must  not,  shall  not  sink 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Though  from  the  Muse's  chalice  I  may  pour 
No  precious  dews  of  Aganippe's  well, 
Or  Castaly, — though  from  the  morning  cloud 
I  fetch  no  hues  to  scatter  on  his  hearse; 
Yet  I  will  wreath  a  garland  for  his  brows. 
Of  simple  flowers,  such  as  the  hedge-rows  scent 
Of  Britain,  my  loved  country;  and  with  tears 
Most  eloquent,  yet  silent,  I  will  bathe 
Thy  honour'd  corse,  my  JSTelson,  tears  as  warm 
And  honest  as  the  ebbing  blood  that  flow'd 
Fast  from  thy  honest  heart. — Thou,  Pity,  tdo. 
If  ever  I  have  loved,  with  faltering  step. 
To  follow  thee  in  the  cold  and  starless  night. 
To  the  top-crag  of  sonjo  rain-beaten  cliff; 
And  as  I  heard  the  deep  gun  bursting  loud 
Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  have  pour'd 
Wild  strains,  and  mournful,  to  the  hurrying  winds. 
The  dying  soul's  viaticum;  if  oft 
Amid  the  carnage  of  the  field  I've  sate 
With  thee  upon  the  moonlight 'throne,  and  sung 
To  cheer  the  fainting  soldier's  dying  soul. 
With  mercy  and  forgiveness — visitant 
Of  heaven — sit  thou  upon  my  harp. 
And  give  it  feeling,  which  w^re  else  too  cold 
For  argument  so  great,  for  theme  so  high. 


92  KIRKE    WHITE. 

How  dimly  on  that  morn  the  sun  arose, 
Kerchief'd  in  mists,  and  tearful,  when — 


PASTORAL    SONG. 

Come,  Anna!  come,. the  morning  dawns, 

Faint  streaks  of  radiance  tinge  the  skies: 
Come,  let  us  seek  the  dewy  lawns. 
And  watch  the  early  lark  arise; 
While  nature,  clad  in  vesture  gay. 
Hails  the  loved  return  of  day. 

Our  flocks  that  nip  the  scanty  blade 

Upon  the  moor,  shall  seek  the  vale; 
And  then,  secure  beneath  the  shade. 
We'll  listen  to  the  throstle's  tale; 
And  watch  the  silver  clouds  above. 
As  o'er  the  azure  vault  they  rove. 

Come,  Anna!  come,  and  bring  thy  lute. 

That  with  its  tones,  so  softly  sweet. 
In  cadence  with  my  mellow  flute. 
We  may  beguile  the  noontide  heat; 
While  near  the  mellow  bee  shall  join, 
To  raise  a  harmony  divine. 

And  then  at  eve,  wh^n  silence  reigns. 
Except  when  heard  the  beetle's  hum 
We'll  leave  the  sober-tinted  plains, 

To  these  sweet  heights  again  we'll  come; 
And  thou  to  thy  soft  lute  shalt  play 
A  solemn  vesper  to  departing  day. 


XIRKE  WHITE.  98 

THE    PIOUS    MAN. 

The  pious  man. 
In  this  bad  world,  when  mists  and  couchant  storms 
Hide  heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 
Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
Of  ether,  where  the  day  is  never  veiPd 
With  intervening  vapours;  and  looks  down 
Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea,  that  hides 
The  earth's  fair  breast;  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
To  grovelling  mortals  frowns  and  darkness  all; 
But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  conceal'd. 
The  glaring  sunbeam  plays 

"  I  AM   PLEASED,  AND  YET  i'm  SAD." 
I. 

When  twilight  steals  along  the  ground. 
And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round. 

One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five, 
I  at  my  study-window  sit, 
And,  wrapped  in  many  a  musing  fit. 

To  bliss  am  all  alive. 

II. 

But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweet 
Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 

And  I  am  inly  glad. 
The  tear-drop  stands  in  cither  eye. 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why,. 

I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad. 

III. 

The  silvery  rack  that  Hies  away 
Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray. 


94  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Does  that  disturb  my  breast  ? 
Nay,  what  have  I,  a  studious  man, 
To  do  with  life's  unstable  plan. 

Or  pleasure's  fading  vest  ? 
IV. 
Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop, 
But  o'er  yon  blue  hill's  woody  top 

Must  bend  my  lonely  way  ? 
No,  surely  no!  for  give  but  me 
My  own  fire-side,  and  I  shall  be 

At  home  where'er  I  stray.  » 

V. 

Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there, 
With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air. 

When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
Oh,  no!  oh,  no!  for  then  forgiven, 
I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  heaven. 

Released  from  every  feju".  • 

VI. 
Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell. 
But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 

That  holds  me  when  I'm  glad; 
And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye. 
When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why. 

Or  wherefore  I  am  sad. 

TO    POESY. 

Yes,  my  stray  steps  have  wander'd,  wander'd  far 
From  thee,  and  long,  heart-soothing  Poesy  I 
And  many  a  flower,  which  in  the  passing  time 
My  heart  hath  register'd,  nipped  by  the  chili 
Of  undeserved  neglect,  hath  shrunk  and  died.' 
Heart-soothing  Poesy! — Though  thou  hast  ceased 


KIRKE  WHITE.  95 

To  hover x)'er  the  many-voiced  strings 
Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 
Call  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice-hallow'd  cell. 
And  with  recalled  images  of  bliss 
Warm  my  reluctant  heart. — Yes,  I  would  throw, 
Once  more  would  throw,  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 
O'er  the  responding  chords. — It  hath  not  ceased — 
It  ciinnot,  will  not  cease;  the  heavenly  warmth 
Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek; 
Still,  though  unbidden,  plays. — Fair  Poesy! 
The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  rain. 
Sunshine  and  storm,  with  various  interchange. 
Have  mark'd  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and  month. 
Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retired. 
Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loiter'd. — Sorceress! 
I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds  I — It  is  but  lift 
Thy  blue  eyes  to  that  deep-bespangled  vault. 
Wreathe  thy  enchanted  tresses  round  thine  arm, 
And,  mutter  some  obscure  and  charmed  rhyme,  ' 

And  I  could  follow  thee,  on  thy  night's  work. 
Up  to  the  regions  of  thrice-chastened  fire. 
Or  in  the  caverns  of  the  ocean  flood 
Thrid  the  light  mazes  of  thy  volant  foot. 
Yet  other  duties  call  me,  and  mine  ear 
Must  turn  away;  from  the  high  minstrelsy 
Of  thy  soul-trancing  harp,  unwillingly 
Must  turn  away;  there  are  severer  strains, 
(And  surely  they  are  sweet  as  ever  smote 
_  The  ear  of  spirit,  from  this  mortal  coil 
Released  and  disembodied,)  there  are  strains. 
Forbid  to  all,  save  those  whom  solemn  thought. 
Through  the  probation  of  revolving  years, 
And  mighty  converse  with  the  spirit  of  truth. 
Have  purged  and  purified. — To  these  my  soul 


96  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Aspireth;  and  to  this  sublimer  end 
I  gird  myself,  and  climb  the  toilsome  steep 
With  patient  expectation. — Yea,  sometimes 
Foretaste  of  bliss  rewards  me;  and  sometimes 
Spirits  unseen  upon  my  footsteps  wait, 
And  minister  strange  music,  which  doth  seem 
Now  near,  now  distant,  now  on  high,  now  low, 
Then  swelling  from  all  sides,  with  bliss  complete. 
And  full  fruition  filling  all  the  soul. 
Surely  such  ministry,  though  rare,  may  soothe 
The  steep  ascent,  and  cheat  the  lassitude 
Of  toil;  and  but  that  my  fond  heart 
Reverts  to  day-dreams  of  the  summer  gone. 
When  by  clear  fouritain,  or  embowered  brake, 
I  lay  a  listless  muser,  prizing,  far  v 

Above  all  other  lore,  the  poet's  theme; 
But  for  such  recollections  I  could  brace 
My  stubborn  spirit  for  the  arduous  path 
Of  science  unregretting;  eye  afar 
Philosophy  upon  her  steepest  height. 
And  with  bold  step,  and  resolute  attempt, 
Pursue  her  to  the  innermost  recess. 
Where  throned  in  light  she  sits,  the  Queen  of  Truth. 
******* 

Hush'd  is  the  lyre — the  hand  that  swept 

The  low  and  pensive  wires. 

Robbed  of  its  cunning,  from  the  task  retires. 
Yes — it  is  still — the  lyre  is  still; 

The  spirit  which  its  slumbers  broke 

Hath  pass'd  away, — and  that  weak  hand  that  voko 

Its  forest  melodies  hath  lost  its  skill. 
Yet  I  would  press  you  to  my  lips  once  more, 
Ye  wild,  ye  withering  flowers  of  poesy: 
Yet  would  I  drink  the  fragrance  which  ye  poor. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  9' 


Mix'd  with  decaying  odours;  for  to  me 
Ye  have  beguiled  the  hours  of  infancy. 
As  in  the  wood-paths  of  my  native — 


TO    AN    EARLY    PRIMROSE. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sirei 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  ne. 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms. 

And  cradled  in  the  winds; 

Thee  when  young   Spring  first  question'd  Winter's 

sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight. 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone. 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  stonna 
Of  chill  adversity,  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head. 

Obscure  and  unobserved; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows. 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 

B.AMBI.ES    WITH    A    FRIliND. 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform'd  and  steep, 
Jiwt  yield  a  scanty  Busteoauce  to  the  sheep, 
9 


98  KIRK£    WHITE. 

With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped. 
To  see  the  simrise  from  his  healthy  bed; 
To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  mom. 
Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn. 
And  taste  delighted  of  superior  joys. 
Beheld  through  Sympathy's  enchanted  eyes: 
With  silent  admiration  oft  we  view'd 
The  myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave  strewd; 
The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade, 
Round  which  the  silvery  sun-beam  glancing  play'd, 
And,  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne. 
Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone; 
We  mark'd  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay, 
Reviving  Nature,  hail'd  returning  day; 
Mark'd  how  the  flowerets  rear'd  their  drooping  heads. 
And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads, 
While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 
'The  birds  sung  paeans  to  the  source  of  light: 
Oft  have  we  watch'd  the  speckled  lark  arise, 
Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies. 
And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pain'd  sight  no  more 
Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour; 
Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 
Came  wafted  slow  the  wavy  breeze  along; 
And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot, 
Bless'd  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  cot. 
Where,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 
Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave. 
We  might  pursue  our  sports  from  day  to  day 
And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 

At  sultry  noon,  too,  when  our  toils  were  done. 
We  to  the  gloomy  glen  were  wont  to  run; 
There  on  the  turf  we  lay,  while  at  our  feet 
The  cooling  rivulet  rippled  softly  sweet; 


KIRKE  WHITE.  99 

And  mused  on  holy  theme,  and  ancient  lore. 

Of  deeds,  and  days,  and  heroes  now  no  more; 

Heard,  as  his  solemn  harp  Isaiah  swept, 

Smig  woe  unto  the  wicked  land — and  wept; 

Or,  fancy-led,  saw  Jeremiah  mourn 

In  solemn  sorrow  o'er  Judea's  urn. 

Then  to  another  shore  perhaps  would  rove, 

With  Plato  talk  in  his  Ilyssian  grove; 

Or,  wandering  where  the  Thespian  palace  rose. 

Weep  once  again  o'er  fair  Jocasta's  woes. 

Sweet  then  to  us  was  that  romantic  band, 
The  ancient  legends  of  our  native  land — 
Chivalric  Britomart,  and  Una  fair,     „ 
And  courteous  Constance,  doom'd  to  dark  despair. 
By  turns  our  thoughts  engaged;  and  oft  we  talk'd 
Of  times  when  monarch  Superstition  stalk'd. 
And  when  the  blood-fraught  gSilliots  of  Rome 
Brought  the  grand  Druid  fabric  to  its  doom, 
While,  where  the  wood-hung  Meinai's  waters  flow. 
The  hoary  harpers  pour'd  the  strain  of  woe. 

While  thus  employ'd,  to  us  how  sad  the  bell 
Which  summon'd  us  to  school!  'Twas  Fancy's  knell. 
And,  sadly  sounding  on  the  sullen  ear, 
It  spoke  of  study  pale,  and  chilling  fear. 
Yet  even  then,  (for  oh!  what  chains  can  bind. 
What  powers  control,  the  energies  of  mind!) 
Even  tnen  we  soar'd  to  many  a  height  sublime. 
And  many  a  day-dream  charm'd  the  lazy  time. 

At  evening,  too,  how  pleasing  was  our  walk, 
fendear'd  by  Friendship's  unrestrained  talk. 
When  to  the  upland  heights  we  bent  our  way. 
To  view  the  last  beam  of  departing  day; 
How  calm  was  all  around!  no  playful  breeze 
Sigh'd  'mid  the  wavy  foliage  of  the  trees; 


100  KIRKE    WHITE. 

But  all  was  still,  save  when,  with  drowsy  song, 

The  gray  fly  wound  his  sullen  horn  along; 

And  save  when,  heard  in  soft,  yet  merry  glee. 

The  distant  church-bells'  mellow  harmony; 

The  silver  mirror  of  the  lucid  brook. 

That  'mid'  the  tufted  broom  its  still  course  took; 

The  ruggid  arch,  that  clasp'd  its  silent  tides. 

With  moss  and  rank  weeds  hanging  down  its  sides 

The  craggy  rock,  that  jutted  on  the  sight; 

The  shrieking  bat,  that  took  its  heavy  flight; 

Ail,  all  was  pregnant  with  divine  delight. 

Wj?  loved  to  watch  the  swallow  swimming  high. 

In  the  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky; 

Or  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  colour'd  pride 

Was  scatter'd  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide. 

And  tinged  with  such  variety  of  shade. 

To  the  charm 'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  convey 'd. 

In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace, 

While  Fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space! 

Now  we  espied  the  Thunderer  in  his  car. 

Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war; 

Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high, 

In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky — 

Or  saw,  wide  stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 

A  ridge  of  glaciers  in  mural  white, 

Hugely  terrific. — But  those  times  are  o'er, 

And  the  fond  scene  can  charm  mine  eyes  no  moro 

For  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left  below. 

Alone  to  struggle  through  this  world  of  woe. 

The  scene  is  o'er — still  seasons  onward  roll. 
And  each  revolve  conducts  me  toward  the  goal; 
Yet  all  is  blank,  without  one  soft  relief. 
One  endless  continuity  of  grief; 
And  the  tired  soul,  now  led  to  thoughts  sublime. 
Looks  but  for  rest  beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 


EIREE    WHITE.  101 

RISIGNATION. 

Yes,  'twill  be  over  soon — This  sickly  dream 

Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  feverish  brain; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 

From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried  pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before, — 
Yon  landscape  smile, — yon  golden  harvest  grow,— • 
Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mounting  wing  will  soar 

When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends  caress. 

They  laugh  in  health,  and  future  evils  brave: 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bless, 

While  I  am  mouldering  in  my  silent  grave. 
God  of  the  just — Thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup; 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 

TO   *rHE    GENIUS    OF    ROMANCE. 

Oh!  thou  who,  in  my  early  youth, 
When  fancy  wore  the  garb  of  truth, 
Wert  wont  to  win  my  infant  feet,  ' 

To  some  retired,  deep-fabled  seat. 
Where,  by  the  brooklet's  secret  tide. 
The  midnight  ghost  was  known  to  glide; 
Or  lay  me  in  some  lonely  glade, 
In  native  Sherwood's  forest  shade, 
Where  Robin  Hood,  the  outlaw  bold. 
Was  wont  his  sylvan  courts  to  holjd; 
And  there,  as  musing  deep  I  lay, 
Would  steal  my  little  soul  away. 
And  all  thy  pictures  represent. 
Of  seige  and  solemn  tournament ; 
Or  bear  me  to  the  magic  scene. 
Where,  clad  in  greaves  and  gaberdine, 
9* 


102  KIRKE    WHITE. 

The  warrior  knight  of  chivalry 

Made  many  a  fierce  enchanter  flee; 

And  bore  the  high-born  dame  away. 

Long  held  the  fell  magician's  prey; 

Or  oft  would  tell  the  shuddering  tale 

Of  murders,  and  of  goblins  pale, 

Haunting  the  guilty  baron's  side, 

(Whose  floors  with  secret  blood  were  dyed,) 

Which  o'er  the  vaulted  corridore 

On  stormy  nights  was  heard  to  roar. 

By  old  domestic,  waken'd  wide 

By  the  angry  winds  that  chide; 

Or  else  the  mystic  tale  would  tell 

Of  Greenslecve,  or  of  Blue-Beard  fell. 


TO    THE    HERB    ROSEMARY.* 
I. 

Sweet-scented  flower!  who  art  wont  to  bloom 

On  January's  front  severe, 

And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 
To  waft  thy  waste  perfume  I 
Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
^nd  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song; 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be  and  long. 

The  melody  of  death. 

*  The  Rosemary  buds  in  January.    It  k  the  flower  coia> 
monly  put  in  the  coSas  of  the  dead. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  103 

II. 

Come,  funeral  flower!  who  lovest  to  dwell 
With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb, 
And  throvwacross  the  desert  gloom 

A  sweet  decaying  smell. 
Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  mc 
Beneath  the  lowly  alder  tree. 

And  we  shall  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude 
To  break  the  marble  solitude 

So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 

III. 

And  hark!  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies, 

Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees, 

And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze, 
Mysterious  music  die?. 
Sweet  flower!  that  requiem  wild  is  mine, 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine, 
The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead; 

My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot. 

Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  sned. 


THE  Savoyard's  return. 

I. 

Oh!  yonder  is  the  well-known  spot. 
My  dear,  my  long-lost  native  homo! 

Oh!  welcome  is  yon  little  cot. 

Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam! 

Oh!  I  have  travelled  far  and  wide, 
O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land; 


104  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried. 
And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 

II. 

Of  distant  climes  the  false  report 

Allured  me  from  my  native  land; 
It  bade  me  rove — my  sole  support 

My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 
The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock. 

The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights. 
The  plain  adorn'd  with  many  a  flock, 

And,  oh!  a  thousand  more  delights. 
That  grace  yon  dear  beloved  retreat. 
Have  backward  won  my  weary  feet. 

III. 

Now  safe  retum'd,  with  wandering  tired. 

No  more  my  little  home  I'll  leave! 
And  many  a  tale  of  what  I've  seen 

Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 
Oh!  I  have  wander'd  far  and  wide. 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried. 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 

ON    BEING    CONFINED   TO  SCHOOL,  ONE  PLEAIAKT 
MORNING  IN  SPRING.* 

The  morning  sun's  enchanting  rays 
Now  call  forth  every  songster's  praise; 

*  Written  at  the  age  of  Thirteen. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  106 

Now  the  lark  with  upward  flight, 

Gaily  usher's  in  the  light; 

While  wildly  warbling  from  each  tree, 

The  birds  sing  songs  to  Liberty.  ^ 

But  for  me  no  songster  sings, 

For  me  no  joyous  lark  upsprings; 

For  I,  confined  in  gloomy  school. 

Must  own  the  pedant's  iron  rule, 

And,  far  from  sylvan  shades  and  bowers. 

In  durance  vile  must  pass  the  hours; 

There  con  the  scholiast's  dreary  lines. 

Where  no  bright  ray  of  genius  shines. 

And  close  to  rugged  learning  cling. 

While  laughs  around  the  jocund  spring. 

How  gladly  would  my  soul  forego 

All  that  arithmeticians  know, 

Or  stiff  gramarians  quaintly  teach. 

Or  all  that  industry  can  reach. 

To  taste  each  morn  of  all  the  joys 

That  with  the  laughing  sun  arise; 

And  unconstrain'd  to  rove  along 

The  bushy  brakes  and  glens  among;  i 

And  woo  the  muse's  gentle  power. 

In  unfrequented  rural  bower! 

But  ah!  such  heaven-approaching  joys 

Will  never  greet  my  longing  eyes; 

Still  will  they  cneat  in  vision  fine. 

Yet  never  but  in  fancy  shine. 

Oh  that  I  were  the  little  wren 
That  shrilly  chirps  from  yonder  glen! 
Oh,  far  away  I  then  would  rove. 
To  some  secluded  bushy  grove; 


106  KIRKE    WHITE 

There  hop  and  sing  with  careless  glee. 
Hop  and  sing  at  liberty; 
And  till  death  should  stop  my  lays. 
Far  from  men  would  spend  my  days. 


fHE   SHIPWRECKED    SOLITART'S    SONG   TO   THJS 
NIGHT. 
Thou,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night! 
I  woo  thee  from  the  watch-tower  high. 
Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds^ 
The  distant  main  is  moaning  low; 
Come,  let  us  sit  and  ^^-eave  a  song — 
A  melancholy  song! 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  mom. 
And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam. 
But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm. 
That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 

I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year. 
And  never  human  voice  have  heard; 
I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year 
A  solitary  man. 

And  I  have  linger'd  in  the  shade. 
From  sultry  noon's  hot  beam;  and  I 
Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door. 
To  sing  my  evening  song. 

And  I  have  hail'd  the  gray  mom  hi^. 

On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow,  , 


KIRKE  WHITE. 

And  tried  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  of  harmony. 

But  never  could  I  tune  my  reed. 
At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet. 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 
I  hail'd  thy  star-beam  mild. 

The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me, 
The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace ; 
But  oh !  when  darkness  robes  the  heavens. 
My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 

And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
Aerial  voices  answer  me; 
And  oh!  I  am  not  then  alone — ' 
A  solitary  man. 

And  when  the  blustering  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 
I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat, 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreeims. 

And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  wife; 
And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  child; 
She  gives  me  back  my  little  home. 
And  all  its  placid  joys. 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour, 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss, 
To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 
The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

The  deep-toned  winds,  the  moaning  sea, 
The  whispering  of  the  boding  trees. 


107 


108  KIRKE   WHITE. 

The  brook's  eternal  flow,  and  oft 
The  Condor's  hollow  scream. 


THE    SHOWER. 

Or  should  the  day  be  overcast, 
We'll  linger  lill  the  shower^be  past; 
Where  the  hawthorn's  branches  spread 
A  fragrant  co.vert  o'er  the  head. 
And  list!  tiie  rain-drops  beat  the  leaves. 
Or  smoke  upon  the  cottage  eaves; 
Or  silent  dimpling  on  the  stream 
Convert  to  Ipad  its  silver  gleam; 
And  we  wiy  muse  on  human  life, 
And  think,  f.-om  all  the  storms  of  strife. 
How  sweet  to  find  a  snug  retreat 
Where  we  may  hear  the  tempests  beat. 
Secure  and  fearless,  and  provide 
Repose  for  life's  calm  eventide. 

SOLITUDE. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow; 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan, 
It  is  that  I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam, 
When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home; 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest. 
When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 

r 
Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs. 
With  hallovv'd  airs  and  symphonies. 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 


KIRKE   WHITE.  109 

The  autumn  leaf  is  sear  and  dead. 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden  wa9, 
T«ll  all  the  same  unvaried  tale ; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free. 
And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I.  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown. 
I  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


If  far  from  me  th«  Fates  remove 
Domestic  peace,  connubial  love. 
The  prattling  ring,  the  social  cheer, 
Afiection's  voice,  afiection's  tear, 
Ye  sterner  powers,  that  bind  the  heart, 
To  me  your  iron  aid  impart! 

0  teach  me,  when  the  nights  are  chill; 
And  my  fire-side  is  lone  and  chill. 
When  to  the  blaze  that  crackles  near, 

1  turn  a  tired  and  pensive  ear. 

And  Nature  conquering  bids  me  sigh 
For  love's  soft  accents  whispering  nigh; 

0  teach  me,  on  that  heavenly  road. 
That  leads  to  Truth's  occult  abode, 
To  wrap  my  soul  in  dreams  divine. 
Till  earth  and  care  no  more  be  mine. 
Let  bless'd  Philosophy  impart 

Her  soothing  measures  to  my  heart; 
And  while  with  Plato's  ravish'd  ears 

1  list  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

10 


110  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Or  on  the  mj'stic  symbols  pour. 
That  hide  the  Chald's  sublimer  lore, 
I  shall  not  brood  on  summers  gone. 
Nor  think  that  I  am  all  alone. 

ON    RURAL    SOLITUDE. 

When  wandering,  thoughtful,  my  stray  steps  at  eve 
(Released  from  toil,  and  careless  of  their  way) 
Have  reach'd,  unwillingly,  some  ruraf  spot 
Where  quiet  dwells  in  cluster'd  cottages 
Fast  by  a  wood,  or  on  the  river's  marge, 
I  have  sat  down  upon  the  shady  stile. 
Half  wearied  with  the  long  and  lonesome  walk. 
And  felt  strange  sadness  steal  upon  the  heart. 
And  unaccountable. — The  rural  smells 
^And  sounds  spake  ail  of  peacefulness  and  home; 
The  lazy  mastiff,  who  my  coming  eyed. 
Half  balancing  'twixt  fondness  and  distrust. 
Recalled  some  images,  now  half  forgot. 
Of  the  warm  hearth  at  eve,  when  flocks  were  penned. 
And  cattle  housed,  and  every  labour  done. 
And  as  the  twilight's  peaceful  hour  closed  in, 
The  spiral  smoke  ascehifoig  from  the  thatch. 
And  the  eve  sparrow's  last  retiring  chirp, 
Have  brought  a  busy  train  of  hovering  thoughts 
To  recollection — rural  offices 
In  younger  days  and  happier  times  perform'd. 
And  rural  friends,  now  with  their  grave-stones  carved. 
And  tales  which  wore  away  the  winter's  night 
Yet  fresh  in  memory — then  my  thoughts  assume 
A  different  turn,  and  I  am  e'en  at  home. 
That  hut  is  mine;  that  cottage  halfembower'd 
With  modest  jessamine,  and  that  sweet  spot 
Of  garden  ground,  where,  ranged  in  neat  array. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  Ill 

Grow  countless  sweets,  the  wall-flower  and  the  pink. 
And  the  thick  thyme-bush — even  that  is  mine; 
And  that  old  mulberry  that  shades  the  court 
Has  been  my  joy  from  very  childhood  up. 


MAN    NOT    MADE    FOR    SOLITUDE. 

Man  was  not  made  to  pine  in  solitude, 
Ensepulchred,  and  far  from  converse  placed. 
Not  for  himself  alone,  untamed  and  rude. 
To  live  the  Bittern  of  the  desert  waste; 
It  is  not  his  (by  manlier  virtue  graced) 
To  pore  upon  the  noontide  brook,  and  sigh. 
And  weep  for  aye  o'er  sorrow  uneffaced; 
Him  social  duties  call  the  tear  to  dry, 
And  wake  the  nobler  powers  of  usefulness  to  ply. 

The  savage  broods  that  in  the  forest  shroud. 

The  Pard  and  Lion  mingle  with  their  kind; 

And  oh!  shall  man,  with  nobler  powers  endow'd. 

Shall  he,  to  nature's  strongest  impulse  blind, 

Bury  in  shades  his  proud  immortal  mind  ? 

Like  the  sweet  flower,  that  on  some  steep  rock  thrown. 

Blossoms  forlorn,  rock'd  by  the  mountain  wind, 

A  little  while  it  decks  the  rugged  stone. 

Then,  withering,  fades  away,  imnoticed  and  unknown! 

SONG. 

Oh  that  I  were  the  fragrant  flower  that  kisses 
My  Arabella's  breast  that  heaves  on  high,* 

Pleased  should  I  be  to  taste  the  transient  blisses. 
And  on  the  melting  throne  to  faint,  and  die. 


112  KIRK£  WHITE. 

Oh  that  I  were  the  robe  that  loosely  covers 
Her  taper  limbs,  and  Grecian  form  divine ; 

Or  the  entwisted  zones,  like  meeting  lovers. 
That  clasp  her  waist  in  many  an  aery  twine. 

Oh  that  my  soul  might  take  its  lasting  station 
In  her  waved  hair,  her  perfumed  breath  to  sip> 

Or  catch  by  chance,  her  blue  eyes'  fascination. 
Or  meet,  by  stealth,  her  soft,  vermilion  lip. 

But,  chain'd  to  this  dull  being,  I  must  ever 
Lament  the  doom  by  which  I'm  hither  placed; 

Must  pant  for  moments  I  rai^  meet  with  neTer» 
And  dream  of  beauties  I  must  never  taste. 


Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes. 

Gently  o'er  my  Edwy  fly! 
Lo!  he  slumbers,  slumbers  sweetly; 
Softly,  zephyrs,  pass  him  by! 
My  love  is  asleep. 
He  lies  by  the  deep, 
AH  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

II. 
I  have  cover'd  him  with  rushes. 

Water-flags,  and  branches  dry. 
Edwy,  long  have  been  thy  slumbers; 
Edwy,  Edwy,  ope  thine  eye! 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep. 
All  along  where  the  salt  wave3  sigh. 

m. 

Still  he  sleeps;  he  will  not  waken^ 
Fastly  closed  is  his  eye; 


KIREE  WHITK.  lit 

Paler  is  his  cheek,  and  chiller 
Than  the  icy  moon  on  high. 
Alas!  he  is  dead, 
He  has  chose  his  deathbed 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

IV. 

Is  it,  is  it  so,  my  Edwy  ? 

Will  thy  slumbers  never  fly  ? 
Couldst  thou  think  I  would  survive  thee  ? 
No,  my  love,  thou  bidd'st  me  die; 
Thou  biddest  me  seek 
Thy  deathbed  bleak 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

V. 

I  will  gently  kiss  thy  cold  lips, 

On  thy  breast  I'll  lay  my  head. 
And  the  winds  shall  sing  our  death-dirge. 
And  our  shroud  the  waters  spread: 
The  moon  will  smile  sweet. 
And  the  wild  wave  will  beat. 
Oh!  so  softly  o'er  our  lonely  bed. 


Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  unhappy  poet  Der 
mody,  in  a  storm,  while  on  board  a  ship  in  hi$ 
Majesty'' 8  service. 

Lo!  o'er  the  welkin  the  tempestuo\is  clouds 
Successive  fly,  and  the  loud-piping  wind 

Rocks  the  poor  sea-boy  on  the  dripping  shrouds,. 
While  the  pale  pilot,  o'er  the  helm  reclined. 

Lists  to  the  changeful  storm:  and  as  he  plies 
10» 


1 14  KIBKE    white:. 

His  wakeful  task,  he  ofl  bethinks  him  sat} 

Of  wife  and  little  home,  and  chubby  lad. 
And  the  half-strangled  tear  bedews  his  eyes; 
I,  on  the  deck,  musing  on  themes  forlorn. 

View  the  drear  tempest,  and  the  yawning  deep. 
Nought  dreading  in  the  green  sea's  caves  to  sleep. 

For  not  for  me  shall  wife  or  children  mourn. 
And  the  wild  winds  will  ring  my  funeral  knell 
Sweetly,  as  solemn  peal  of  pious  passing-bell. 

SONNET. 

The  harp  is  still  F     Weak  though  the  spirit  were 

That  whisper'd  in  its  rising  harmonies;      ' 

Yet  Memory,  with  her  sister,  fond  Regret, 

Loves  to  recall  the  wild  and  wandering  airs 

That  cheer'd  the  long-fled  hours,  when  o'er  the  string* 

That  spirit  hover'd.     Weak  and  though  it  were 

To  pour  the  torrent  of  impetuous  song. 

It  was  not  weak  to  touch  the  sacred  chords 

Of  pity,  or  to  summon  with  dark  spell 

Of  witching  rhymes,  the  spirits  of  the  deep 

Form'd  to  do  Fancy's  bidding;  and  to  fetch 

Her  perfumes  from  the  morning  star,  or  dye 

Her  volant-robes  with  the  bright  rainbow's  hue& 


TO    THE    SPIRITS    OF    EVE. 

Ye  utiseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies, 
At  evening  rising  slow,  yet  sweetly  clear. 
Steal  on  the  musing  poet's  pensive  ear. 

As  by  the  wood-spring  stretch 'd  supine  he  lies. 
When  he  who  now  invokes  you  low  is  laid. 

His  tired  frame  resting  on  the  earth's  cold  b«d. 

Hold  ye  your  nightly  vigils  o'er  hiB  head. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  115 

And  chant  a  dirge  to  his  reposing  shade! 

For  he  was  wont  to  love  your  madrigals ; 
And  often  by  the  haunted  stream  that  laves 
The  dark  sequester'd  woodland's  inmost  caves. 

Would  sit  and  listen  to  the  dying  falls, 
Till  the  full  tear  would  quiver  in  his  eye, 
And  his  big   heart   would  heave    with    mournful 
ecstasy. 

MY    STUDY. 

You  bid  me,  Ned,  describe  the  place 
Where  I,  one  of  the  rhyming  race. 
Pursue  my  studies  con  amore. 
And  wanton  with  the  muse  in  glory. 

Well,  figure  to  your  senses  straight. 
Upon  the  house's  topmost  height, 
A  closet,  just  six  feet  by  four. 
With  white-wash'd  walls  and  plaster  floor; 
So  noble  large,  'tis  scarcely  able 
To'  admit  a  single  chair  or  table; 
And  (lest  the  muse  should  die  with  cold) 
A  smoky  grate  my  fire  to  hold — 
So  wondrous  small,  'twould  much  it  pose 
To  melt  the  ice-drop  on  one's  nose; 
And  yet  so  big,  it  covers  o'er 
Full  half  the  spacious  room  and  more. 

A  window  vainly  stuff'd  about. 
To  keep  November's  breezes  out. 
So  crazy,  that  the  panes  proclaim, 
That  soon  they  mean  to  leave  the  frame. 

My  furniture  I  sure  may  crack — 
A  broken  chair  without  a  back; 
A  table  wanting  just  two  legs. 
One  end  sustain'd  by  wooden  pegs 


116  KIBKE    WHITE. 

A  desk — of  that  I  am  not  fervent, 

The  work  of,  Sir,  your  humble  servant; 

(Who,  though  I  say't,  am  no  such  fumbler;) 

A  glass  decanter  and  a  tumbler. 

From  which  my  night-parch'd  throat  I  lave. 

Luxurious  with  the  limpid  wave. 

A  chest  of  drawers,  in  antique  sections. 

And  saw'd  by  me  in  all  directions; 

So  small.  Sir,  that  whoever  views  'em 

Swears  nothing  but  a  doll  comd  use  'em. 

To  these,  if  you  will  add  a  store 

Of  oddities  upon  the  floor, 

A  pair  of  globes,  electric  balls, 

Scales,  quadrants,  prisms,  and  cobbler's  awls; 

And  crowds  of  books,  on  rotten  shelves. 

Octavos,  folios,  quartos,  twelves; 

I  think,  dear  Ned,  you  curious  dog, 

You'll  have  my  earthly  catalogue. 

But  stay, — I  nearly  had  left  out 

My  bellows  destitute  of  snout; 

And  on  the  walls, — Good  Heavens!  why  there 

I've  such  a  load  of  precious  ware. 

Of  heads,  and  coins,  and  silver  medals. 

And  organ  works,  and  broken  pedals; 

(For  I  was  once  a-building  music, 
Though  soon  of  that  employ  I  grew  sick;) 

And  skeletons  of  laws  which  shoot 

All  out  of  one  primordial  root; 

That  you,  at  such  a  sight,  would  swear 

Confusion's  self  had  settled  there. 

There  stands,  just  by  a  broken  sphere, 

A  Cicero,  without  an  ear; 

A  neck,  on  which,  by  logic  good, 

I  know  for  sure  a  head  once  stood; 


KIRKE  WHITE.  117 

But  who  it  was  the  able  master 

Had  moulded  in  the  mimic  plaster. 

Whether  'twas  Pope,  or  Coke,  or  Bum, 

I  never  yet  could  justly  learn : 

But  knowing  well,  that  any  head 

Is  made  to  answer  for  the  dead,  , 

(And  sculptors  first  their  faces  frame. 

And  after  pitch  upon  a  name, 

Nor  think  it  aught  of  a  misnomer 

To  christen  Chaucer's  busto  Homer, 

Because  they  both  have  beards,  which,  you  know. 

Will  mark  them  well  from  Joan  and  Juno,) 

For  some  great  man,  I  could  not  tell 

But  Neck  might  answer  just  as  well. 

So  perch'd  it  up,  all  in  a  row 

With  Chatham  and  with  Cicero. 

Then  all  around  in  just  degree, 

A  range  of  portraits  you  may  see. 

Of  mighty  men  and  eke  of  women. 

Who  are  no  whit  inferior  to  men. 

With  these  fair  dames,  and  heroes  round, 

I  Call  my  garret  classic  ground: 

For  though  confined,  'twill  well  contain 

The  ideal  flights  of  Madam  Brain. 

No  dungeon's  walls,  no  cell  confined. 

Can  cramp  the  energies  of  mind! 

Thus,  though  my  heart  may  seem  so  small, 

I've  friends,  and  'twill  contain  them  all! 

And  should  it  e'er  become  so  cold 

That  these  it  will  no  longer  hold. 

No  more  may  Heaven  her  blessings  givo,-^ 

I  shall  not  then  be  £t  to  live. 


118  KIREE    WHITX. 

DESCRIPTION    OF    A    SUMMER'S    BVB. 

Down  the  sultry  arc  of  day 

The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way 

And  eve  along  the  western  skies 

Spreads  her  intermingling  dyes. 

Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 

Creeking  comes  the  empty  wain, 

And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits. 

Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits; 

And  oft  with  his  accustom'd  call. 

Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 

The  barn  is  still,  the  master's  gone. 

And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on, 

While  Dick  upon  the  ladder  tall. 

Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 

Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last, 

He  has  penned  the  sheep-cote  fast. 

For  'twas  but  two  nights  before 

A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor: 

His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries. 

Now  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries; 

With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try 

If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 

The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans. 

And  supper  messes  in  the  cans; 

In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheel'd, 

And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-field; 

The  horses  are  all  bedded  up. 

And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup; 

The  snare  for  Mister  Fo.x  is  set. 

The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet, 

And  Bess  has  slink'd  away  to  talk 

With  Roger  in  the  holly  walk. 


KIRKS    WHITE.  119 

Now,  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
Are  set  to  eat  their  supper  mess; 
And  little  Tom  and  roguish  Kate 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things, 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings, 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news. 
How  madam  did  the  squire  refuse; 
How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
And  landlord  oft  distrain'd  for  rent. 
Thus  do  they  talk,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale-eyed  moon  is  mounted  high. 
And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
Had  reel'd — -Jhen  hasten  all  to  bed. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  napping  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid — while  master  goes  throughout. 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out. 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear. 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear; 
Then  both  to  bed  together  creep, 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 

;         1»»ITTEN    ON    A    SURVEY    OF    THE    HEAVENS 

p  In  the  Morning  before  Daybreak. 

'  Ye  many  twinkling  stars,  who  yet  do  hola 
Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 
Of  night's  dominions! — Planets,  and  central  orbs 
Of  other  systems! — big  as  tiie  burning  sun 
Which  lights  this  nether  globe, — yet  to  our  eye 
Small  as  the  glow-worm's  lamp! — To  you  I  raise 
My  lowly  orisons,  while,  all  bewilder'd, 
My  vision  strays  o'er  your  ethereal  hosts; 


120  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Too  vast,  too  boundless  for  our  narrow  mind, 

Warp'd  with  low  prejudices,  to  unfold, 

And  sagely  comprehend.     Thence  higher  soaring, 

Through  ye  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  Him, 

The  mighty  Founder  of  this  wondrous  maze. 

The  Great  Creator!  Him!  who  now  sublime, 

Wrapt  in  the  soUtary  amplitude 

Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  spheres 

Sits  on  his  silent  throne,  and  meditates. 

The'  angelic  hosts,  in  their  inferior  heaven. 
Hymn  to  the  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime. 
Repeating  loud,  '  The  Lord  pur  God  is  great,' 
In  varied  harmonies. — The  glorious  sounds 
Roll  o'er  the  air  serene — The'  ^Eolian  spheres, 
Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries. 
Catch  the  full  note  and  cry,  '  The  Lord  is  great,' 
Responding  to  the  Seraphim. — O'er  all 
From  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 
Of  the  created  world,  the  sound  is  borne. 
Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 

Oil!  'tis  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 
In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear. 
And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.     It  bids  me  smile 
On  the  vain  world,  and  all  its  bustling  cares. 
And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 
Oh!  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height. 
What  even  are  kings,  when   balanced  in  the  scale 
Of  these  stupendous  worlds!     Almighty  God! 
Thou,  the  dread  author  of  these  wondrous  works. 
Say,  canst  thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm. 
One  look  of  kind  benevolence? — Thou  canst; 
For  thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 
And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 
Thy  beams  as  well  to  me  as  to  the  proud. 
The  pageant  insects  of  a  glittering  hour. 


KISKE  WHITE.  121 

Oh!  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime. 
How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 
The  gaudes,  and  honours  of  the  world  appear! 
How  vain  ambition!  Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 
Outwatch'd  the  slow-paced  night  ? — Why  on  the  page, 
The  schoolman's  labour'd  page,  have  I  employ'd 
The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest. 
And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 
Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 
The  loss  of  health  i  or  can  the  hope  (rf  glory 
Lend  a  new  throb  unto  my  languid  heart, 
Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow. 
Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep-sunken  eye. 
Or  paint  new  colours  on  this  pallid  cheek  ? 

Say,  foolish  one — can  that  unbodied  fame. 
For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness, 
Say,  can  it  soothe  the  slumbers  of  the  grave — 
Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss,  or  chase  the  pangs 
Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
Alas!  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires! 
How  fruitless  his  pursuits!  Eternal  God! 
Guide  Thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth. 
And  oh!  assist  me  so  to  live  on  earth. 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
In  thy  high  dwelling. — All  but  this  is  folly. 
The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 

TO    A    TAPER. 

'Tis  midnight — On  the  globe  de£vd  slumber  sits. 

And  all  is  silence — in  the  hour  of  sleep — 
Save  when  the  hollow  gust,  that  swells  by /its. 
In  the  dark  wood  roars  fearfully  and  deep, 
I  wake  alone  to  listen  and  to  weep, 
11 


122  EIRKE    WHITE. 

To  watch,  my  taper,  thy  pale  beacon  bum; 
And,  as  still  Memory  does  her  vigils  keep. 

To  think  of  days  that  never  can  return. 
By  thy  pale  ray  I  raise  my  languid  head. 

My  eye  surveys  the  solitary  gloom; 
And  the  sad  meaning  tear,  unmix'd  with  dread. 

Tells  thou  dost  light  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Like  thee  I  wane; — like  thine  my  life's  last  ray 
Will  fade  in  loneliness,  unwept,  away. 

THANATOS. 

Oh!  who  would  cherish  life. 
And  cling  unto  this  heavy  clog  of  clay, 

Love  this  rude  world  of  strife. 
Where  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day;. 

And  where,  'neath  outward  smiles, 
Conceal'd,  the  snake  lies  feeding  on  its  prey; 
Where  pit-falls  lie  in  every  flowery  way, 

And  sirens  lure  the  wanderer  to  their  wiles! 

Hateful  it  is  to  me. 
Its  riotous  railings  and  revengeful  strife; 

I'm  tired  with  all  its  screams  and  brutal  shouts 
Dinning  the  ear; — away- — away  with  life! 
'     And  welcome,  oh!  thou  silent  maid, 

Who  in  some  foggy  vault  art  laid. 

Where  never  daylight's  dazzling  ray 

Comes  to  disturb  thy  dismal  sway; 

And  there  amid  unwholesome  damps  dost  sleep. 

In  such  forgetful  slumbers  deep. 

That  all  thy  senses  stupified. 

Are  to  marble  petrified. 

Sleepy  death,  I  welcome  thee! 

Sweet  are  thy  calms  to  misery. 

Poppies  I  will  ask  no  more. 

Nor  the  fat&l  hellebore ; 


KIRKE    WHITE.  128 

Death  is  the  best,  the  only«cure. 

His  are  slumbers  ever  sure. 

Lay  me  in  the  Gothic  tomb, 

In  whose  solemn  fretted  gloom 

I  may  lie  in  mouldering  state, 

With  all  the  grandeur  of  the  great:  i 

Over  me,  magnificent. 

Carve  a  stately  monument; 

Then  thereon  my  statue  lay, 

With  hands  in  attitude  to  pray, 

And  angels  serve  to  hold  my  head. 

Weeping  o'er  the  father  dead. 

Duly  too  at  close  of  day. 

Let  the  pealing  organ  play; 

And  while  the  harmonious  thunders  roll. 

Chant  a  vesper  to  my  soul: 

Thus  how  sweet  my  sleep  will  be. 

Shut  nut  from  thoughtful  misery! 

ATHANATOS. 

Away  with  death — away 
With  all  her  sluggish  sleeps  and  chilling  damps. 

Impervious  to  the  day. 
Where  nature  sinks  into  inanity. 
How  can  the  sou!  desire 
Such  hateful  nothingness  to  crave. 
And  yield  with  joy  the  vital  fire. 
To  moulder  in  the  grave! 

Yet  mortal  life  is  sad. 
Eternal  storms  molest  its  sullen  sky; 

And  sorrows  ever  rife 
Drain  the  sacred  fountain  dry — 
Away  with  mortal  life! 


124  KIREE    WHITE. 

But,  hail  the  calm  reality. 

The  seraph  Immortality! 

Hail  the  heavenly  bowers  of  peace! 

Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  cease. 

Wild  Life's  dismaying  struggle  o'er. 

The  wearied  spirit  weeps  no  more ; 

But  wears  the  eternal  smile  of  joy. 

Tasting  bliss  without  alloy. 

Welcome,  welcome,  happy  bowers. 

Where  no  passing  tempest  lowers; 

But  the  azure  heavens  display 

The  everlasting  smile  of  day; 

Where  the  choral  seraph  choir 

Strike  to  praise  the  harmonious  lyre; 

And  the  spirit  sinks  to  ease, 

Lull'd  by  distant  symphonies. 

Oh!  to  think  of  meeting  there 

The  friends  whose  graves  received  our  tear*, 

The  daughter  loved,  the  wife  adored. 

To  our  widow'd  arms  restored; 

And  all  the  joys  which  death  did  sever. 

Given  to  us  again  for  ever! 

Who  would  cling  to  wretched  life, 

And  hug  the  poison'd  thorn  of  strife; 

Who  would  not  long  from  earth  to  fly, 

A  sluggish  senseless  lump  to  lie. 

When  the  glorious  prospect  lies 

Full  before  his  raptured  eyes  ? 


ODE    TO    THOUGHT.       WRITTEN    AT    MIDITXOHT. 
I. 

Hence  away,  vindictive  Thought! 
Thy  pictures  are  of  pain; 


KIRKE    WHITE.  126 

The  visions  through  thy  dark  eye  caught, 
They  with  no  gentle  charms  are  fraught. 
So  pr'ythee  back  again. 
I  would  not  weep, 
I  wish  to  sleep. 
Then  why,  thou  busy  foe,  with  me  thy  vigils  keep? 

II. 

Why  dost  o'er  bed  and  couch  recline  ? 

Is  this  thy  new  delight  ? 
Pale  visitant,  it  is  not  thine 
To  keep  thy  sentry  through  the  mine. 
The  dark  vault  of  the  night: 
'Tis  thine  to  die. 
While  o'er  the  eye 
?he  dews  of  slumber  press,  and  walking  sorrows  flj. 

III. 

Go  thou,  and  bide  with  him  who  guides 

His  bark  through  lonely  seas; 
And,  as  reclining  on  his  helm. 
Sadly  he  marks  the  starry  realm. 
To  him  thou  may'st  bring  ease; 
But  thou  to  me 
Art  misery, 
So  pr'ythee,  pr'ythee,  plume  thy  wings,  and  from  my 
pillow  flee. 

IV. 

id.  Memory,  pray  what  art  thou  ? 
Art  thou  of  pleasure  born  ? 
)oes  bliss  untainted  from  thee  flow  ? 
The  rose  that  gems  the  pensive  brow. 
Is  it  without  a  thorn  ? 


126  KIREE  WHITE. 

With  all  thy  smiles, 
And  witching  wiles, 
Jfet  not  unfrequent  bitterness  thy  mournful  swaj 
defiles. 

V. 

The  drowsy  night-watch  has  forgot 

To  call  the  solemn  hour; 
Lull'd  by  the  winds  he  slumbers  deep, 
While  I  in  vain,  capricious  Sleep, 
Invoke  thy  lardy  power; 
And  restless  lie. 
With  unclosed  eye. 
And  count  the  tedious  hours  as  slow  they  minute  by. 

TIME,    A  POEM. 

This  poem  was  begun  either  during  the  puhh'catio* 
of  Clifton  Grove,  or  shortly  afterward.  Henrf 
never  laid  aside  the  intention  of  completing  it,  ani 
some  of  the  detached  parts  were  among  his  late^ 
productions. 

Genius  of  musings,  who,  the  midnight  hour 
Wasting  in  woods  or  haunted  forests  wild. 
Dost  watch  Orion  in  his  arctic  tower, 
Thy  dark  eye  fix'd  as  in  some  holy  trance; 
Or  when  the  voUey'd  lightnings  cleave  the  air. 
And  Ruin  gaunt  bestrides  the  winged  storm, 
Sitt'st  in  some  lonely  watch-t6wer,  where  thy  lamp» 
Faint-blazing,  strikes  the  fisher's  eye  from  far. 
And  'mid  the  howl  of  elements,  unmoved 
Dost  ponder  on  the  awful  scene,  and  trace 
The  vast  effect  to  its  superior  source, — 
Spirit,  attend  my  lowly  benison! 
For  now  I  strike  ta  themes  of  import  high 


KIRKE   WHITE.  127 

The  solitary  lyre;  and,  borne  by  thee 
Above  this  narrow  cell,  I  celebrate 
The  mysteries  of  Time! 

Him  who,  august, 
Was  ere  these  worlds  were  fashion'd, — ere  the  son 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  Lucifer  displayed 
His  glowing  cresset  in  the  arch  of  morn, 
Or  Vesper  gilded  the  serener  eve. 
Yea,  He  had  been  for  an  eternity! 
Had  swept  unvarying  from  eternity 
The  harp  of  desolation! — ere  his  tones. 
At  God's  command,  assumed  a  milder  strain, 
And  startled  on  his  watch,  in  the  vast  deep. 
Chaos's  sluggish  sentry,  and  evoked 
From  the  dark  void  the  smiling  universe, 
Chain'd  to  the  grovelling  frailties  of  the  flesh, 
Mere  mortal  man,  unpurged  from  earthly  dross. 
Cannot  survey,  with  fix'd  and  steady  eye, 
The  dim  uncertain  gulf,  which  now  the  Muse, 
Adventrous,  would  explore: — but  dizzy  grown,- 
'  He  topples  down  the  abyss. — If  he  would  scan 
The  fearful  chasm,  and  catch  a  transient    glimpse 
Of  its  unfathomable  depths,  that  so 
His  mind  may  turn  with  double  joy  to  God, 
His  only  certainty  and  resting  place; 
He  must  put  off  awhile  this  mortal  vest, 
And  learn  to  follow,  without  giddiness, 
To  heights  where  all  is  vision,  and  surprise, 
And  vague  conjecture. — He  must  waste  by  night 
The  studious  taper,  far  from  all  resort 
Of  crowds  and  folly,  in  some  still  retreat; 
High  on  the  beetling  promontory's  crest. 
Or  in  the  caves  of  the  vast  wilderness. 
Where,  compaas'd  round  with  Nature's  wildest  shapMt 


128  KIRKE    WHITE. 

He  may  be  driven  to  centre  all  his  thoughts 

In  the  Great  Architect,  who  lives  confess'd 

In  rocks,  and  seas,  and  solitary  wastes: 

So  has  divine  Philosophy,  with  voice 

Mild  as  the  murmurs  of  the  moonlight  wave, 

TutorM  the  heart  of  him,  who  now  awakes. 

Touching  the  chords  of  solemn  minstrelsy, 

His  faint,  neglected  song — intent  to  snatch 

Some  vagrant  blossom  from  the  dangerous  steep 

Of  poesy,  a  bloom  of  such  a  hue. 

So  sober,  as  may  not  unseemly  suit 

With  Truth's  severer  brow;  and  one  withal 

So  hardy  as  shall  brave  the  passing  wind 

Of  many  winters, — rearing  its  meek  head 

In  loveliness,  when  he  who  gather'd  it 

Is  number'd  with  the  generations  gone. 

Yet  not  to  me  hath  God's  good  providence 

Given  studious  leisure,*  or  unbroken  thought. 

Such  as  he  owns, — a  meditative  man. 

Who  from  the  blush  of  mom  to  quiet  eve 

Ponders,  or  turns  the  page  of  wisdom  o'er. 

Far  from  the  busy  crowd's  tumultuous  din: 

From  noise  and  wrangling  far,  and  undisturb'd 

With  Mirth's  unholy  shouts.     For  me  the  any 

Hath  duties  which  require  the  vigorous  hand 

Of  steadfast  application,  but  which  leave 

No  deep  improving  trace  upon  the  mind. 

But  be  the  day  another's; — let  it  pass! 

The  night's  my  own — They  cannot  steal  my  night' 

When  evening  lights  her  folding  star  on  high, 

I  live  and  breathe,  and  in  the  sacred  hours 

Of  quiet  and  repose,  my  spirit  flies, 

*  The  author  was  then  in  an  Attorney's  office. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  129 

Free  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space, 

And  mounts  the  skies,  and  imps  her  wing  for  Heaven. 

Hence  do  I  love  thee  sober-suited  maid; 

Hence  night's  my  friend,  my  mistress  and  my  theme. 

And  she  shall  aid  me  now  to  magnify 

The  night  of  ages, — now  when  the  pale  ray 

Of  starlight  penetrates  the  studious  gloom,  ' 

And,  at  my  window  seated,  while  mankind 

Are  lock'd  in  sleep,  I  feel  the  freshening  breeze 

Of  stillness  blow,  while,  in  her  saddest  stole, 

Thought,  like  a  wakeful  vestal  at  her  shrine. 

Assumes  her  wonted  sway. 

Behold  the  world 
Rests,  and  her  tired  inhabitants  have  paused 
From  trouble  and  turmoil.     The  widow  now 
Has  ceased  to  weep,  and  her  twin  orphans  lie 
Lock'd  in  each  arm,  partaker's  of  her  rest 
The  man  of  sorrow  has  forgot  his  woes; 
The  outcast  that  his  head  is  shelterless. 
His  griefs  unshared. — The  mother  tends  no  more 
Her  daughter's  dying  slumbers,  but  surprised 
With  heaviness,  and  sunk  upon  her  couch, 
Dreams  of  her  bridals.     Even  the  hectic,  lull'd 
On  death's  lean  arm  to  rest,  in  visions  wrapped, 
Crowning  with  Hope's  bland  wreath  his  shuddering 

nurse. 
Poor  victim!  smiles. — Silence  and  deep  repose 
Reign  o'er  the  nations;  and  the  warning  voice 
Of  Nature  utters  audibly  within 
The  general  moral:  tells  us  that  repose. 
Deathlike  as  this,  but  of  far  longer  span, 
Is  coming  on  us — that  the  weary  crowds. 
Who  now  enjoy  a  temporary  calm, 
Shall  soon  taste  lasting  quiet,  wrapped  around 


130  KIREE    WHITE. 

With  grave-clothes:  and  their  acting  restless  heads 

Mouldering  in  holes  and  corners  unobserved. 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  their  sullen  sleep. 

Who  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 

That  flesh  is  grass,  that  earthly  things  are  mist  ? 

What  are  our  joys  but  dreams  ?  and  what  our  hopes 

But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud  ? 

There's  not  a  wind  that  blows  but  bears  with  it 

Some  rainbow  promise: — Not  a  moment  flies 

But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life. 

And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 

'Tis  but  as  yesterday  since  on  yon  stars. 

Which  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  Shepherd*  gazed 

In  his  mid-watch  observant,  and  disposed 

The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 

Yet  in  the  interim  what  mighty  shocks 

Have  buffeted  mankind! — whole  nations  razed — 

Cities  made  desolate, — the  polish 'd  sunk 

Tobarbarism,  and  once  barbaric  states 

Swaying  the  vFand  of  science  and  of  arts; 

Illustrious  deeds  and  memorable  names 

Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue 

Of  gray  Tradition,  voluble  no  more. 

Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 
Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones 
Who  flourished  in  the  infancy  of  days? 
All  to  the  grave  gone  down.     On  their  fallen  fame 
Exulting,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man, 
Sits  grim  Forgetfulness. — The  warrior's  arm 
Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame; 
Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  the  blaze 

*  Alluding  to  the  first  astronuraical  observations  made  by 
the  Chaldean  shepherds. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  131 

Of  his  red  eye-ball. — Yesterday  his  name 
Was  mighty  on  the  e^rth — To-day — 'tis  what  ?    . 
The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years, 
That  flash'd  unnoticed,  save  by  the  wrinkled  eld. 
Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 
Who  at  the  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 
Point  to  the  mist-poised  shroud,  then  quietly 
Closed  her  pale  lips,  and  lock'd  the  secret  up 
Safe  in  the  charnel's  treasures. 

0  how  weak 
Is  mortal  man!  how  trifling — how  confined 
His  scope  of  vision!  Puff'd  with. confidence. 
His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality. 
And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day! 
Dreams  of  eternal  honours  to  his  name; 
Of  endless  glory  and  perennial  bays. 
He  idly  reasons  of  eternity. 

As  of  the  train  of  ages, — when,  alas!  i 

Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 
Are,  in  comparison  a  little  point 
Too  trivial  for  accompt. — 0,  it  is  strange, 
'Tis  passing  strange,  to  mark  his  fallacies: 
Behold  him  proudly  view  some  pompous  pile. 
Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies. 
And  smile,  and  say,  my  name  shall  live  with  this 
Till  Time  shall  be  no  more;  while  at  his  feet, 
Yea,  at  his  very  feet,  the  crumbling  dust 
Of  the  fallen  fabric  of  the  other  day 
Preaches  the  solemn  lesson. — He  should  know 
That  time  must  conquer;  that  the  loudest  blast 
That  ever  fill'd  Renown's  obstreperous  trump 
Fades  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  expires. 
Who  lies  inhumed  in  the  terrific  gloom 
Of  the  gigantic  pyrantid  ?  or  who 


182  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Rear'd  its  huge  walls  ?  Oblivion  laughs,  and  says. 
The  prey  is  mine. — They  sleep,  and  never  more 
Their  name  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man — 
Their  memory  bursts  its  fetters. 

Where  is  Rome? 
She  lives  but  in  the  tale  of  other  times; 
Her  proud  pavilions  are  the  hermit's  home. 
And  her  long  colonnades,  her  public  walks. 
Now  faintly  echo  to  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
Who  comes  to  muse  in  solitude,  and  trace, 
Through  the  rank  moss  reveal'd,  her  honour'd  duit. 
But  not  to  Rome  alone  has  fate  confined 
The  doom  of  ruin;  cities  numberless,  ^ 

Tyre,  Sidon,  Carthage,  Babylon,  and  Troy, 
And  rich  Phcenicia-they  are  blotted  out. 
Half-rased  from  memory,  and  their  very  name 
And  being  in  dispute. — Has  Athens  fallen 
Is  polish'd  Greece  become  the  savage  seat 
Of  ignorance  and  sloth  ?  and  shall  we  dare 


And  empire  seeks  another  hemisphere. 
Where  now  is  Britain  ? — Where  her  laurell'd  names, 
Her  palaces  and  halls  ?  Dash'd  in  the  dust. 
Some  second  Vandal  hath  reduced  her  pride. 
And  with  one  big  recoil  hath  thrown  her  back 

To  primitive  barbarity. Again, 

Through  her  depopulated  vales,  the  scream 
Of  bloody  Superstition  hollow  rings. 
And  the  scared  native  to  the  tempest  howls 
The  yell  of  deprecation.     O'er  her  marts. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  138 

Her  crowded  ports,  broods  silence;  and  the  cry 

Of  tlie  low  curlew,  and  the  pensive  dash 

Of  distant  billows,  breaks  alone  the  void. 

Even  as  the  savage  sits  upon  the  stone 

That  marks  where  stood  her  capitols,  and  hears 

The  bittern  booming  in  the  weeds,  he  shrinks 

From  the  dismaying  solitude. — Her  bards 

Sing  in  a  language  that  hath  perished: 

And  their  wild  harps  suspended  o'er  their  graves, 

Sigh  to  the  desert  winds  a  dying  strain. 

Meanwhile  the  Arts,  in  second  infancy. 

Rise  in  some  distant  clime,  and  then,  perchance. 

Some  bold  adventurer,  fill'd  with  golden  dreams. 

Steering  his  bark  through  trackless  solitudes — 

Where,  to  his  wandering  thoughts,  no  daring  prow 

Hath  ever  plough 'd  before — espies  the  cliffs 

Of  fallen  Albion. — To  the  land  unknown 

He  journies  joyful;  and  perhaps  descries 

Some  vestige  of  her  ancient  stateliness: 

Then  he,  with  vain  conjecture,  fills  his  mind 

Of  the  unheard-of  race,  which  had  arrived 

At  science  in  that  solitary  nook, 

Far  from  the  civil  world;  and  sagely  sighs. 

And  moralizes  on  the  state  of  man. 

Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt, 
Moves  on  our  being.     We  do  live  and  breathe, 
And  we  are  gone.     The  spoiler  heeds  iis  not. 
We  have  our  spring-time  and  our  rottenness; 
And  as  we  fall,  another  race  succeeds. 
To  perish  likeiyise. — Meanwhile  Nature  smiles — • 
The  seasons  run  their  round — the  Sun  fulfils 
His  annual  course — and  heaven  and  earth  remain 
Still  changing,  yet  unchanged — still  doom'd  to  feel 
Endless  mutation  in  perpetual  rest. 
12 


134  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Where  are  conceal'd  the  days  which  have  elapsed. 

Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  the  past, 

They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appal. 

By  indistinct  and  half-glimpsed  images. 

Misty,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 

Oh,  it  is  fearful,  on  the  midnight  couch, 
When  the  rude  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 
And  the  pale  moon,  that  through  the  casement  high 
Surveys  the  sleepless  muser,  stamps  the  hour 
Of  utter  silence,  it  is  fearful  then 
To  steer  the  mind,  in  deadly  solitude. 
Up  the  vague  stream  of  probability; 
To  wind  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  past. 
And  turn  the  key  of  Time! — Oh!  who  can  strive 
To  comprehend  the  vast,  the  awful  truth 
Of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by, 
And  not  recoil  from  the  dismaying  sense 
Of  human  impotence  ?  The  life  of  man 
Is  summed  in  birthdays  and  in  sepulchres: 
But  the  Eternal  God  had  no  beginning; 
He  hath  no  end.     Time  had  been  with  him 
For  everlasting,  ere  the  daedal  world 
Rose  from  the  gulf  in  loveliness. — Like  him 
It  knew  no  source,  like  him  'twas  uncreate. 
What  is  it  then?  The  past  Eternity! 
We  comprehend  a.  future  without  end; 
We  feel  it  possible  that  even  yon  sun 
May  roll  for  ever:  but  we  shrink  amazed — 
We  stand  aghast,  when  we  reflect  that  Time 
Knew  no  commencement.     That,  heap  age  on  age. 
And  million  upon  million,  without  end. 
And  we  shall  never  span  the  void  of  days 
That  were,  and  are  not  but  in  retrospect. 
The  past  is  an  unfathomable  depth. 


KIRKE  WHITE.  135 

Beyond  the  span  of  thought ;  'tis  an  elapse 
Which  hath  no  mensuration,  but  hath  been 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Change  of  days 
To  us  is  sensible ;  and  each  revolve 
Of  the  recording  sun  conducts  us  on 
Farther  in  life,  and  nearer  to  our  goal. 
Not  so  with  Time, — mysterious  chronicler, 
He  knoweth  not  mutation; — centuries 
Are  to  his  being  as  a  day,  and  days 
As  centuries. — Time  past,  and  Time  to  come. 
Are  always  equal;  when  the  world  began 
God  had  eidsted  from  eternity. 

******  i^ 

Now  look  on  man 
Myriads  of  ages  hence. — Hath  time  elapsed  ? 
Is  he  not  standing  in  the  self-same  place 
Where  once  we  stood  ? — The  same  eternity 
Hath  gone  before  him,  and  is  yet  to  come; 
His  past  is  not  of  longer  span  than  ours, 
Though  myriads  of  ages  intervened ; 
For  who  can  add  to  what  has  neither  sum, 
Nor  bound,  nor  source,  nor  estimate,  nor  end; 
Oh,  who  can  compass  the  Almighty  mind  ? 
Who  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  High  ? 
In  speculations  of  an  altitude 
Sublime  as  this,  our  reason  stands  confess'd 
Foolish,  and  insignificant  and  mean. 
Who  can  apply  the  futile  argument 
.  Of  finite  beings  to  infinity? 
He  might  as  well  compress  the  universe 
Into  the  hollow  compass  of  a  gourd, 
Scoop'd  out  by  human  art;  or  bid  the  whale 
Prink  up  the  sea  it  swims  in. — Can  the  less 


136  KIREE    WHITB. 

Contain  the  greater  ?  or  the  dark  obscure 
Infold  the  glories  of  meridian  day  ? 
What  does  Philosophy  impart  to  man 
But  undiscover'd  wonders? — Let  her  soar 
Even  to  her  proudest  heights — to  where  she  caught 
The  soul  of  Newton  and  of  Socrates, 
She  but  extends  the  scope  of  wild  amaze 
And  admiration.     All  her  lessons  end 
In  wider  views  of  God's  unfathom'd  depths. 
Lo!  the  unletter'd  hind,  who  never  kn%w 
To  raise  his  mind  excursive  to  the  heights 
Of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he  sits 
On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side. 
What  time  the  insect  swarms  are  murmuring. 
And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds 
That  fringe  with  loveliest  hues  the  evening  sky. 
Feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  Nature  rouse 
The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  form'd 
The  goodly  prospect;  he  beholds  the  God 
Throned  in  the  west,  and  his  reposing  ear 
Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze 
That  floats  through  neighbouring  copse  or  fairy  brake, 
Or  lingers  playful  on  the  haunted  stream. 
Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire, 
Where  o'er  the  moors  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 
And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon; 
Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar. 
Silent,  and  big  with  thought;  and  hear  him  bless 
The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds 
For  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys; 
Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot  with  his 
Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolda, 
A  poor  night-traveller,  while  the  dismal  snow 
Beats  in  hia  face,  and,  dubious  of  his  path. 


XIRKE  WHITZ.  137 

• 

He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast. 
He  hears  some  village  mastiff's  distant  howl. 
And  sees,  far-streaming,  some  lone  cottage  light; 
Then,  undeceived,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes. 
And  clasps  his  shivering  hands;  or,  overpower'd. 
Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weigh'd  down  with  sleep, 
From  which  the  hapless  wretch  shall  never  wake. 
Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praise 
And  glowing  gratitude, — he  turns  to  bless, 
With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God! 
And  shall  it  e'er  be  said,  that  a  poor  hind. 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  Ignorance,  and  bred 
In  want  and  labour,  glows  with  nobler  zeal 
To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 
Whom  starry  Science  in  her  cradle  rock'd. 
And  Castaly  enchasten'd  with  its  dews. 
Closes  his  eyes  upon  the  holy  word. 
And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  and  pride. 
Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity, 
And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ? 
What  is  philosophy,  if  it  impart 
Irreverence  for  the  Deity,  or  teach 
A  mortal  man  to  set  his  judgement  up 
Against  his  maker's  will  ? — The  Polygar, 
Who  kneels  to  sun  or  moon,  compared  with  him 
Who  thus  perverts  the  talents  he  enjoys, 
Is  the  most  bless'd  of  men! — Oh!  I  would  walk 
A  weary  journey,  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  big  world,  to  kiss  that  good  man's  hand. 
Who,  m  the  blaze  of  wisdom  and  of  art, 
Preserves  a  lowly  mind;  and  to  his  God, 
Feeling  the  sense  of  his  own  littleness. 
Is  a  child  in  meek  simplicity! 
What  is  the  pomp  of  learning  ?  the  parade 
12« 


138  KIRKU    WHITS^ 

Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?     Even  as  the  mists 
Of  the  gay  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 
To  pass  away  and  perish. 

Earthly  things 
Are  but  the  transient    pageants  of  an  hour; 
And  earthly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower, 
That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 
'Tis  as  the  tower  erected  on  a  cloud, 
Baseless  and  silly  as  the  schoolboy's  dream. 
Ages  and  epochs  that  destroy  our  pride, 
And  then  record  its  downfall,  what  are  they 
But  the  poor  creatures  of  man's  teeming  brain  ? 
Hath  Heaven  its  ages  ?  or  doth  heaven  preserve 
Its  stated  eras  ?     Doth  the  Omnipotent 
Hear  of  to-morrows  or  of  yesterdays  ? 
There  is  to  God  nor  future  nor  a  past ; 
Throned  in  his  might,  all  times  to  him  are  present; 
He  hath  no  lapse,  no  past,  no  time  to  come; 
He  sees  before  him  one  eternal  now. 
Time  moveth  not! — our  being  'tis  that  moves: 
And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  stream. 
Dream  of  swift  ages  and  revolving  years, 
Ordain'd  to  chronicle  our  passing  days: 
So  the  young  sailor  in  the  gallant  bark. 
Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 
Receding  from   his  eyes,  and  thinks  the  while. 
Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 
And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 

Such,  alas! 
Are  the  illusions  of  this  Proteus  life; 
All,  all  is  false:  through  every  phasis  still 
'Tis  shadowy  and  deceitful.     It  assumes 
The  semblances  of  things  and  specious  shapes; 
But  the  lost  traveller  might  as  soon  rely 


KIRKE  WHITE.  1S9 

On  the  evasive  spirit  of  the  marsh, 

Whose  lantern  beams,  and  vanishes,  and  flits. 

O'er  bog,  and  rock,  and  pit,  and  hollow  way. 

As  we  on  its  appearances.  ' 

On  earth 
There  is  tio  certainty  nor  stable  hope. 
As  well  the  weary  mariner,  whose'  bark 
Is  toss'd  beyond  Cimmerian  Bosphorus, 
Where  Storm  and  Darkness  hold  their  drear  domain, 
And  sunbeams  never  penetrate,  might  trust 
To  expectation  of  serener  skies, 
And  linger  in  the  very  jaws  of  death. 
Because  some  peevish  cloud  were  opening. 
Or  the  loud  storm  had  bated  in  its  rage; 
As  we  look  forward  in  this  vale  of  tears 
To  permanent  delight — from  some  slight  glimpse 
Of  shadowy  unsubstantial  happiness. 

The  good  man's  hope  is  laid  far,  far  beyond 
The  sway  of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 
Of  mortal  desolation. — He  beholds. 
Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 
Of  rampant  ruin,  or  the'  unstable  waves 
Of  dark  Vicissitude. — Even  in  death. 
In  that  dread  hour,  when  with  a  giant  pang. 
Tearing  the  tender  fibres  of  the  heart. 
The  immortal  spirit  struggles  to  be  free. 
Then,  even  then,  that  hope  forsakes  him  not. 
For  it  exists  beyond  the  narrow  verge 
Of  the  cold  sepulchre.     The  petty  joys 
or  fleeting  life  indignanfly  it  spurned. 
And  rested  on  the  bosom  of  its  God. 
This  is  man's  only  reasonable  hope; 
And  'tis  a  hope  which,  cherish 'd  in  the  breut, 
Sha  U  not  be  disappointed. — Even  be. 


140  KIRKE    WHITE. 

The  Holy  One — Almighty — who  elanced 

The  rolling  world  along  its  airy  way, 

Even  He  will  deign  to  smile  upon  the  good. 

And  welcome  him  to  these  celestial  seats. 

Where  joy  and  gladness  hold  their  changeless  reign. 

Thou,  proud  man,  look  upon  yon  starry  vault. 

Survey  the  countless  gems  which  richly  stud 

The  Night's  imperial  chariot; — Telescopes 

Will  show  thee  myriads  more  innumerous 

Than  the  sea  sand; — each  of  those  little  lamps 

Is  the  great  source  of  light,  the  central  sun 

Round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood 

Of  planets  travel,  every  planet  stock'd 

With  living  beings  impotent  as  thee. 

Now,  proud  man!  now,  where  is  thy  greatness  fled? 

What  art  thou  in  thy  scale  of  universe  ? 

Less,  less  than  nothing! — Yet  of  thee  the  God 

Who  built  this  wondrous  frame  of  worlds  is  careful. 

As  well  as  of  the  mendicant  who  begs 

The  leavings  of  thy  table.     And  shalt  thou 

Lift  up  thy  thankless  spirit,  and  contemn 

His  heavenly  providence!  Deluded  fool, 

Even  now  the  thunderbolt  is  winged  with  death. 

Even  now  thou  totterest  on  the  brink  of  hell. 

How  insignificant  is  mortal  man, 
Bound  to  the  hasty  pinions  of  an  hour! 
How  poor,  how  trivial  in  thy  vast  conceit 
Of  infinite  duration,  boundless  space! 
God  of  the  universe!    Almighty  one! 
Thou  who  dost  walk  upon  th«  winged  winds. 
Or  with  the  storm,  thy  rugged  charioteer. 
Swift  and  impetuous  as  the  northern  blast, 
Ridest  from  pole  to  pole ;  Thou  who  dost  hola 
The  forked  lightnings  in  thine  awful  grasp. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  141 

And  reinest  in  the  earthquake,  when  thy  wrath 

Goes  down  towards  erring  man,  I  would  address 

To  Thee  my  parting  pcean;  for  of  Thee, 

Great  beyond  comprehension,  who  thyself 

Art  Time  and  Space,  sublime  Infinitude, 

Of  Thee  has  been  my  song — With  awe  I  kneel 

Trembling  before  the  footstool  of  thy  state. 

My  God!  my  Father! — I  will  sing  to  Thee 

A  hymn  of  laud,  a  solemn  canticle. 

Ere  on  the  cypress  wreath,  which  overshades 

The  throne  of  Death,  I  hang  my  mournful  lyre, 

And  give  its  wild  strings  to  the  desert  gale. 

Rise,  son  of  Salem!  rise,  and  join  the  strain, 

Sweep  to  accordant  tones  thy  tuneful  harp. 

And  leaving  vain  laments,  arouse  my  soul 

To  exultation.     Sing  hosanna,  sing. 

And  hallelujah,  for  the  Lord  is  great 

And  full  of  mercy!  He  has  thought  of  man; 

Yea,   compass'd  round   with   countless   worlds,  haa 

Of  we  poor  worms,  that  batten  in  the  dews    [thought 

Of  morn,  and  perish  ere  the  noonday  sun. 

Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  merciful: 

He  gave  the  Nubian  lion  but  to  live. 

To  rage  its  hour,  and  perish;  but  on  man 

He  lavish'd  immortality,  and  heaven. 

The  eagle  falls  from  his  aerial  tower. 

And  mingles  with  irrevocable  dust:  , 

But  man  from  death  springs  joyful. 

Springs  up  to  life  and  to  eternity. 

Oh,  that,  insensate  of  the  favouring  boon. 

The  great  exclusive  privilege  bestow'd 

On  us  unworthy  trifles,  men  should  dare 

To  treat  with  slight  regard  the  proffer'd  heaven, 

And  urge  the  lenient,  but  All-Just,  to  swear 


142  KIKKE    WHITE. 

In  wrath,  '  They  shall  not  enter  in  my  rest!* 

Might  I  address  the  supplicative  strain 

To  thy  high  footstool,  I  would  pray  that  thou 

Wouldst  pity  the  deluded  wanderers. 

And  fold  them,  ere  they  perish,  in  thy  flock. 

Yea,  I  would  bid  thee  pity  them,  through  Hiin» 

Thy  well-beloved,  who,  upon  the  cross, 

Bled  a  dead  sacrifice  for  human  sin. 

And  paid,  with  bitter  agony  the  debt 

Of  primitive  transgression. 

Oh!  I  shrink, 
My  very  soul  doth  shrink,  when  I  reflect 
That  the  time  hastens,  when  in  vengeance  clothed. 
Thou  shalt  come  down  to  stamp  the  seal  of  fate 
On  erring  mortal  man.     Thy  chariot  wheels 
Then  shall  rebound  to  earth's  remotest  caves. 
And  stormy  Ocean  from  his  bed  shall  start 
At  the  appalling  summons.     Oh!  how  dread. 
On  the  dark  eye  of  miserable  man. 
Chasing  his  sins  in  secrecy  and  gloom. 
Will  burst  the  efiulgence  of  the  opening  heaven. 
When  to  the  brazen  trumpets  deafening  roar. 
Thou  and  thy  dazzling  cohorts  shall  descend, 
Proclaiming  the  fulfilment  of  the  word! 
The  dead  shall  start  astonish'd  from  their  sleep! 
Their  sepulchres  shall  groan  and  yield  their  prey! 
The  bellowing  floods  shall  disembogue  their  charge 
Of  hurtan  victims. — From  the  farthest  nook 
Of  the  wide  world  shall  troop  their  risen  souls. 
From  him  whose  bones  are  bleaching  in  the  waste 
Of  polar  solitudes,  or  him  whose  corpse, 
Whelm'd  in  the  loud  Atlantic's  vexed  tides, 
Is  wash'd  on  some  Carribean  prominence. 
To  the  lone  tenant  of  some  secret  cell 


KIRKF.  WHITE.  143 

In  the  Pacific's  vast     »     ♦     ♦     realm. 

Where  never  plummet's  sound  was  heard  to  part 

The  wilderness  of  water;  they  shall  come 

To  greet  the  solemn  advent  of  the  Judge. 

Thou  first  shall  summon  the  elected  saints 

To  their  apportion'd  heaven!  and  thy  Son, 

At  thy  right  hand,  shall  smile  with  conscious  joy 

On  all  his  past  distresses,  when  for  them 

He  bore  humanity's  severest  pangs. 

Then  shall  thou  seize  the'  avenging  scimitar. 

And,  with  a  roar  as  loud  and  horrible 

As  the  stern  earthquake's  monitory  voice. 

The  wicked  shall  bn  driven  to  their  abode, 

Down  the  immitigable  gulf,  to  wail 

And  gnash  their  teeth  in  endless  agony. 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard — Spirit,  rear 

Thy  flag  on  high! — Invincible,  and  throned 

In  unparticipated  might.     Behold 

Earth's  proudest  boasts,  beneath  thy  silent  sway. 

Sweep  headlong  to  destruction,  thou  the  while. 

Unmoved  and  heedless,  thou  dost  hear  the  rash 

Of  mighty  generations,  as  they  pass 

To  the  broad  gulf  of  ruin,  and  dost  stamp 

Thy  signet  on  them,  and  they  rise  no  more. 

Who  shall  contend  with  time — unvanquish'd  Time, 

The  conqueror  of  conquerors,  and  lord 

Of  desolation  ? — Lo!  the  shadows  fly. 

The  hours  and  days,  and  years  and  centuries. 

They  fly,  they  fly,  and  nations  rise  and  fall. 

The  young  are  old,  the  old  are  in  their  graves. 

Heard'st  thou  that  shout  ?  It  rent  the  vaulted  skies; 

It  was  the  voice  of  people, — ^mighty  crowds, — 

Again!  'tis  hush'd — Time  speaks,  and  all  is  hush'd; 


144  KIRKE.  WHITE. 

In  the  vast  multitude  now  reigns  alone 
Unruffled  solitude.     They  all  are  still; 
All — yea,  the  whole — the  incalculable  mass, 
Still  as  the  ground  that  clasps  their  cold  remains. 
Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard — Spirit,  rear 
Thy  flag  on  high!  and  glory  in  thy  strength. 
But  do  thou  know  the  season  yet  shall  come. 
When  from  its  base  thine  adamantine  throne 
Shall  tumble;  when  thine  arm  shall  cease  to  strike. 
Thy  voice  forget  its  petrifying  power; 
When  saints  shall  shout,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more. 
Yea,  he  doth  come — the  mighty  champion  comes, 
Whose  potent  spear  shall  give  thee  thy  death-wound. 
Shall  crush  the  conqueror  of  conquerors. 
And  desolate  stern  Desolation's  lord. 
Lo!  where  he  cometh!  the  Messiah  comes! 
The  King!  the  Comforter!  the  Christ! — He  comes 
To  burst  the  bonds  of  death,  and  overturn 
The  power  of  Time. — Hark!  the  trumpet's  blast 
Rings  o'er  the  heavens!  They  rise,  the  myriads  rise- 
Even  from  their  graves  they  spring,  and  burst  the  chains 
Of  torpor — He  has  ransom'd  them,     *         *         • 
Forgotten  generations  live  again, 
Assume  the  bodily  shapes  they  own'd  of  old. 
Beyond  the  flood: — The  righteous  of  their  times 
Embrace  and  weep,  they  weep  the  tears  of  joy. 
The  sainted  mother  wakes,  and  in  her  lap 
Clasps  her  dear  babe,  the  partner  of  her  grave. 
And  heritor  with  her  of  heaven, — a  flower 
Wash'd  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  from  the  stain 
Of  native  guilt,  even  in  its  early  bud. 
And,  hark!  those  strains,  how  solemnly  serene 
They  fall,  as  from  the  skies — at  distance  fall — 
Again  more  loud — The  hallelujah's  swell; 


KIUKE   WHITE.  113 

The  newly-risen  catch  the  joyful  sound-; 
They  glow,  they  burn;  and  now  with  one  accord 
Bursts  forth  sublime  from  every  mouth  the  song 
Of  praise  to  God  on  high,  and  to  the  Lamb 
Who  bled  for  mortals. 

******* 

Yet  there  is  "peace  for  man. — Yea,  there  is  peace 

Even  in  this  noisy,  this  unsettled  scene; 

When  from  the  crowd,  and  from  the  city  far. 

Haply  he  may  be  set  (in  his  late  walk 

O'ertaken  with  deep  thought)  beneath  the  boughs 

Of  honeysuckle,  when  the  sun  is  gone. 

And  with  fix'd  eye,  and  wistful," he  surveys 

The  solemn  shadows  of  the  heavens  sail. 

And  thinks  the  season  yet  shall  come,  when  Time 

Will  waft  him  to  repose,  to  deep  repose. 

Far  from  the  imquietness  of  life — from  noise 

And  tumult  far — beyond  the  flymg  clouds. 

Beyond  the  stars,  and  all  this  passing  scene,  ■ 

Where  change  shall  cease,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more 


TO    THE    RIVER    TRENT. 

Written  on  recovery  from  sickness. 

Once  more,  O  Trent !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 

A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale. 
From  the  close  sick-room  newly  let  at  large, 
Woos  to  his  wan-worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale. 
0!  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 

Which  fills  with  joy  the'throstle's  little  throat; 
And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  'fresh  breeze  sail. 
How  v/ildlv  novel  on  his  senses  float' 

is 


146  KIRIiE     WHITE. 

It  was  on  this  that  many  a  sleepless  night, 

Aa,  lone,  he  watch'd  the  taper's  sickly  gleam. 
And  at  his  casement  hfeard,  with  wild  affright. 
The  owls  dull  wing  and  melancholy  scream, 
On  this  he  thought,  this,  this  his  sole  desire. 
Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland  choir 


When  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn 

Of  wealth,  my  heart  with  gall  imbued, 
I  thought  how  pleasant  were  the  morn  ' 

Of  silence,  in  the  solitude; 
To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wing, 
Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring. 
To  lie  and  muse  alone — alone. 
While  the  tinkling  waters  moan, 
Or  such  wild  sounds  arise,  as  say, 
Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 

Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there's  enow 

To  fill  life's  dusty  way; 
And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet. 

Or  wonder  where  he  stray: 
So  to  the  woods  and  waste  I'll  go. 

And  I  will  build  an  osier  bower; 
'And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  flow 

The  meditative  hour. 

And  when  the  Autumn's  withering  hand 
Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
I'll  to  the  forest  caverns  hie: 
And  in  the  dark  and  stormy  nights 
I'll  listen  to  the  shrieking  sprites. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  147 

Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods. 
Keep  jubilee,  and  shred  the  woods; 
Or,  as  'tis  drifted  soft  and  slow, 
Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow.       ' 


THE    VILLAGE    SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

In  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls 
In  many  'a  fold  the  mantling  woodbine  falls, 
The  village  matron  kept  her  little  school. 
Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knowing  well  to  rule; 
Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien; 
Her  garb  was  qoarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean; 
Her  neatly  border'd  cap,  as  lily  fair, 
Beneath  her  chin  was  pinned  with  decent  care; 
And  pendent  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawn. 
Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn. 
Faint  with  old  age,  and  dim  were  grown  her  eyes, 
A  pair  of  spectacles  their  want  supplies; 
These  does  she  guard  secure  in  leathern  case, 
From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  unweeted  place. 
Here  first  I  cnter'd,  though  with  toil  and  pain. 
The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane; 
Enter'd  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 
Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display; 
Much  did  I  grieve,  on  that  ill-fated  morn. 
While  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne: 
Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  try'd 
To  soothe  my  swelling  spirits  when  I  sigh'd; 
And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reproved,  I  wept, 
To  my  lone  corner  broken-hearted  crept. 
And  thought  of  tender  home,  where  anger  never  kept. 
But  soon  inured  to  alphabetic  toils, 
Alert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocund  smiles; 


148  EIRKE    WHITE. 

First  at  the  form,  my  task  forever  true, 
A  little  favourite  rapidly  I  grew: 
And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight» 
Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight; 
And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 
Talk'd  of  the  honours  of  my  future  days. 
Oh !  had  the  venerable  matron  thought 
Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  often  brought; 
Could  she  have  seen  me  when  revolving  years 
Had  brought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  teajs. 
Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  my  wayward  fate 
Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unletter'd  state; 
Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife. 
Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through  life. 

THE    WANDERIIVG    BOY.       A    SONG. 
I. 

When  the  winter  wind  whistles  along  the  wild  moor- 
And  the  cottager  shuts  on  the  beggar  his  door; 
When  the  chilling  tear  stands  in  my  comfortless  eye? 
Oh,  how  hard  is  the  lot  of  the  Wandering  Boy! 

n. 

The  winter  is  cold  and  I  have  no  vest. 
And  my  heart  it  is  cold  as  it  beats  in  my  breast; 
No  father,  no  mother,  no  kindred  have  I, 
For  I  am  a  parentless  Wandering  Boy. 

HI. 

Yet  I  once  had  a  home,  and  I  once  had  a  sire, 

A  mother  who  granted  each  infant  desire; 

Our  cottage  it  stood  in  a  wood-embower'd  vale, 

Where  the  ring-dove  would  warble  its  sorrowful  tale. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  140 

IV. 

But  my  father  and  mother  were.summor.'d  away. 
And  they  left  me  to  hard-hearted  strangers  a  prey; 
I  fled  from  their  rigour  with  many  a  sigh. 
And  now  I'm  a  poor  little  Wandering  Boy. 

V. 

The  wind  it  is  keen,  and  the  snow  loads  the  gale. 
And  no  one  will  list  to  my  innocent  tale; 
I'll  go  to  the  grave  where  my  parents  both  lie. 
And  death  shall  befriend  the  poor  Wandering  Boy. 

WRITTEN    IN    WILFORD    CHURCHYARD, 

On  Recovery  from^  Sickness. 

Here  would  I  wish  to  sleep. — This  is  the  spot 
Which  I  have  long  mark'd  out  to  lay  my  bones  in; 
Tired  out  and  wearied  with  the  riotous  world, 
Beneath  this  Yew  I  would  be  sepulchrod. 
It  is  a  lovely  spot!  The  sultry  sun. 
From  his  meridian  height,  endeavours  vainly 
To  pierce  the  shadowy  foilage,  while  the  zephyr 
Comes  wafting  gently  o'er  the  rippling  Trent, 
And  plays  about  my  wan  cheek.     'Tis  a  nook 
Most  pleasant.     Such  a  one,  perchance,  did  Gray 
Frequent,  as  with  a  vagrant  muse  he  wanton'd. 

Come,  I  will  sit  me  down  and  meditate. 
For  I  am  wearied  with  my  summer's  walk; 
And  here  I  may  repose  in  silent  ease; 
And  thus,  perchance,  when  life's  sad  journey's  o'er. 
My  harass'd  soul,  in  this  same  spot,  may  find 
The  haven  of  its  rest — beneath  this  sod 
Perchance  may  sleep  it  sweetly,  sound  as  death. 

I  would  not  have  my  corpse  cemented  down 
With  brick  and  stone,  defrauding  the  poor  earth-wora 
13* 


150  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Of  its  predestined  dues;  no,  I  would  lie 

Beneath  a  little  hillock,  grass-o'ergrown, 

Swathed  down  with  osiers,  just  as  sleep  the  cottien 

Yet  may  not  undistinguished  be  my  grave; 

But  there  at  eve  may  some  congenial  soiJ 

Duly  resort,  and  shed  a  pious  tear, 

The  good  man's  benison — no  more  I  aSk. 

And  oh!  (if  heavenly  beings  may  look  down 

From  where,  with  cherubim,  inspired  they  sit. 

Upon  this  little  dim-discover'd  spot. 

The  earth,)  then  will  I  cast  a  glance  below. 

On  him  who  thus  my  ashes  shall  embalm; 

And  I  will  weep  too,  and  will  bless  the  wanderer. 

Wishing  he  may  not  long  be  doom'd  to  pine 

In  this  low-thoughted  world  of  darkling  woe. 

But  that,  ere  long,  he  reach  his  kindred  skies. 

Yet  'twas  a  silly  thought,  as  if  the  body, 
Mouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Could  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  scenery. 
And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  breeze ! 
Yet  nature  speaks  within  the  human  bosom. 
And,  spite  of  reason,  bids  it  look  beyond 
Its  narrow  verge  of  being,  and  provide 
A  decent  residence  for  its  clayey  shell, 
Endear'd  to  it  by  time.     And  who  would  lay 
His  body  in  the  city  burial-place,' 
To  be  thrown  up  again  by  some  rude  Sexton, 
And  yield  i^  narrow  house  another  tenant. 
Ere  the  moist  flesh  had  mingled  with  the  dust. 
Ere  the  tenacious  hair  had  left  the  scalp. 
Exposed  to  insult  lewd,  and  wantonness  ? 
No,  I  will  lay  me  in  the  village  ground; 
There  are  the  dead  respected.     The  poor  hind, 
UnletterM  as  he  is,  would  scorn  to'  invade 


KIRKE  WHITE.  151 

The  silent  resting-place  of  death.     I've  seep 

The  labourer,  returning  from  his  toil, 

Here  stay  his  steps,  and  call  his  children  round. 

And  slowly  spell  the  rudely-sculptured  rhymes. 

And,  in  his  rustic  manner,  moralize. 

I've  mark'd  with  what  a  silent  awe  he'd  spoken. 

With  head  uncover'd,  his  respectful  manner. 

And  all  the  honours  which  he  paid  the  grave, 

And  thought  on  cities,  where  even  cementeries, 

Bestrew'd  with  all  the  emblems  of  mortality. 

Are  not  protected  from  the  drunken  insolence 

Of  wassailers  profane,  and  wanton  havoc. 

Grant,  Heaven,  that  here  my  pilgrimage  may  close! 

Yet,  if  this  be  denied,  where'er  my  bones 

May  lie — or  in  the  city's  crowded  bounds. 

Or  scatter'd  wide  o'er  the  huge  sweep  of  waters. 

Or  left  a  prey  on  some  deserted  shore 

To  the  rapacious  cormorant,— yet  still, 

(For  why  should  sober  reason  cast  away 

A  thought  which  soothes  the  soul  ?)  yet  still  my  spirit 

Shall  wing  its  way  to  these  my  native  regions. 

And  hover  o'er  this  spot.     Oh,  then  I'll  think 

Of  times  when  I  was  seated  'necith  this  yew 

In  solemn  rumination;  and  will  smile 

With  joy  that  I  have  got  my  long'd  release. 


A    WINTER    SKETCH. 

Loud  rage  the  winds  without. — The  wintry  cloud 
O'er  the  cold  north-star  casts  her  flitting  shroud; 
And  Silence,  pausing  in  some  snow-clad  dale, 
Starts  as  she  hears,  by  fits,  the  shrieking  gale; 
Where  now,  shut  out  from  every  still  retreat. 
Her  pine-clad  summit,  and  her  woodland  seat. 


152  KISiri;    WITITFC. 

Shall  Meditation,  in  her  saddest  mood, 

Retire  o'er  all  her  pensive  stores  to  brood  ? 

Shivering  and  blue  the  peasant  eyes  askance 

The  drifted  fleeces  that  around  iiim  dance, 

And  hurries  on  his  half-averted  form, 

Stemihing  the  fury  of  the  sidelong  storm. 

Him  soon  shall  greet  his  snow-topt  [cot  of  thatch,] 

Soon  shall  his  numb'd  hand  tremble  on  the  latch, 

Soon  from  his  chimney's  nook  the  cheerful  flame 

Diffuse  a  genial  warmth  throughout  his  frame; 

Round  the  light  fire,  while  roars  the  north  wind  loud. 

What  merry  groups  of  vacant  faces  crowd; 

These  hail  his  coming — these  his  meal  prepare. 

And  boast  inall  that  cot  no  lurking  care. 

What,  though  the  social  circle  be  denied, 
Even  sadness  brightens  at  her  own  fire-side, 
Loves,  with  fi.x'd  eye,  to  watch  the  fluttering  blaze. 
While  musing  Memory  dwells  on  former  days; 
Or  Hope,  blest  spirit!  smiles — and  still  forgiven. 
Forgets  the  passport,  while  she  points  to  heaven. 
Then  heap  the  fire — shut  out  the  biting  air, 
And  from  its  station  wheel  the  easy  chair: 
Thus  fenced  and  warm,  in  silent  fit,  'tis  sweet 
To  hear  without  the  bitter  tempest  beat: 
All,  all  alone — to  sit,  and  muse,  and  sigh. 
The  pensive  tenant  of  obscurity — 


WINTER    SONG. 


Rouse  the  blazing  midnight  fire 
Heap  the  crackling  faggots  higher 
Stern  December  reigns  without, 
With  old  Winter's  blustering  rout. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  158 

Let  the  jocund  timbrels  sound. 
Push  the  jolly  goblet-round; 
Care,  ayaunt,  with  all  thy  crew. 
Goblins  dire  and  devils  blue. 

Hark!  without  the  tempest  howls; 
And  the  affrighted  watch-dog  growls; 
Witches  on  their  broomsticks  sail. 
Death  upon  the  whistling  gale. 

Heap  the  crackling  faggots  higher. 
Draw  your  easy  chairs  still  nigher; 
And,  to  guard  from  wizards  hoar. 
Nail  the  horse-shoe  on  the  door. 

Now  repeat  the  freezing  story 
Of  the  murder'd  traveller  gory. 
Found  beneath  the  yew-tree  sear. 
Cut  his  throat  from  ear  to  ear. 

Tell,  too,  how  his  ghost,  all  bloody, 
Frighten'd  once  a  neighbouring  goody; 
And  how,  still,  at  twelve  he  stalks. 
Groaning  o'er  the  wild  wood  WJilks. 

Then,  when  fear  usurps  her  sway. 

Let  us  creep  to  bed  away; 

Each  for  ghosts,  but  little  bolder,  ^ 

Fearfully  peeping  o'er  his  shoulder. 

THE    WINTER    TRAVELLER. 

(iod  help  thee.  Traveller,  on  thy  journey  far; 
Tiie  wind  is  bitter  keen, — the  snow  o'erlays 
The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways. 


154  KIRKE    WHITE. 

And  darkness  will  involve  thee. — No  kind  star 

To-night  will  guide  thee,  Traveller, — and  the  war 
Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break. 
And  in  thy  agonising  ear  the  shriek 

Of  spirits,  howling  on  their  stormy  car, 

Will  often  ring  appalling — I  portend 

A  dismal  night — and  on  my  wakeful  bed. 
Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee  will  fill  my  head. 

And  him  who  rides  where  winds  and  waves  contend. 
And  strives,  rude  cradled  oq  the  seas,  t*"  guide 
His  lonely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 

TO    WINTER. 

Drear  winter!  who  dost  knock 
So  loud  and  angry  on  my  cottage  roof 
In  the  loud  night-storm  wrapt,  while  drifting  snows 
The  cheerless  waste  invest,  and  cold,  and  wide. 
Seen  by  the  flitting  star,  the  landscape  gleams; 
With  no  unholy  awe  I  hear  thy  voice. 
As  by  my  dying  embers,  safely  housed, 
I,  in  deep  silence,  muse.     Though  I  am  lone. 
And  my  low  chimney  owns  no  cheering  voice 
Of  friendly  converse,  yet  not  comfortless 
Is  my  long  evening,  nor  devoid  of  thoughts 
To  cheat  the  silent  hours  upon  their  way. 
There  are,  who  in  this  dark  and  fearful  night. 
Houseless,  and  cold  of  heart,  are  forced  to  bide 
These  beating  snows,  and  keen  relentless  winds — 
Wayfaring  men,  or  wanderers  whom  no  home 
Awaits,  nor  rests  from  travel,  save  the  inn 
Where  all  the  journeyers  of  mortal  life 
Lie  down  at  last  to  sleep.     Yet  some  there  be 
Wb.o  merit  not  to  suffer. — Infancy 
And  sinew-shrinking  age  are  not  exempt 


KIRKE  WHITE.  155 

From  penury's  severest,  deadliest  gripe. 

Oh,  it  doth  chill  the  eddying  heart 's-blood  to  see 

The  guileless  cheek  of  infancy  turn  blue 

With  the  keen  cold. — Lo,  where  the  baby  hangs 

On  his  wan  parent's  hand,  his  shivering  skin 

Half  bare,  and  opening  to  the  biting  gale. 

Poor  shiverer,  to  his  mother  he  upturns 

A  meaning  look  in  silence!  then  he  casts 

Askance,  upon  the  howling  waste  before, 

A  mournful  glance  upon  the  forward  way — 

But  all  lies  dreary,  and  as  cold  as  hope 

Ih  his  forsaken  breast. 

*  THE    WISH. 

Give  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild, 

Where,  far  from  cities,  I  may  spend  my  days. 
And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguiled, 

May  pity  man's  pursuits,  and  shun  his  ways. 
While  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat. 

List  to  the  mountain-torrent's  distant  noise. 
Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 

I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys; 
But  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre. 

Shall  think  my  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more; 
And  when,  with  time,  shall  wane  the  vital  fire, 

I'll  raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore. 
And  lay  me  down  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 

THE    FRUITLESS    WISH. 

I  have  a  wish,  and  near  my  heart 

That  wish  lies  buried; 
To  keep  it  there's  a  foolish  part. 


156  KIRKE  WHITE 

For,  oh!  it  must  not  be, 
It  must  not,  must  not  be. 

Why,  my  fond  heart,  why  beat'st  thou  so> 
The  dream  is  fair  to  see — 

But  bid  the  lovely  flatterer  go; 
It  must  not,  must  not  be. 
Oh  !  no,  it  must  not  be. 

'Tis  well  this  tear  in  secret  falls, 
This  weakness  suits  not  me  ; 
I  know  where  sterner  duty  calls: 
It  must  not,  cannot  be 
«  Oh!  no,  it  cannot  be. 


THE  BYZANTINE  HERMIT. 

While  the  seat  of  empire  was  yet  at  Byzantium, 
and  that  city  was  the  centre,  not  only  of  dominion, 
but  of  learning  and  politeness,  a  certain  hermit  had 
fixed  his  residence  in  a  cell,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Athyras,  at  the  distance  of  about  ten  miles  from  the 
capital.  The  spot  was  retired,  although  so  near  tiio 
great  city,  and  was  protected,  as  well  by  woods  and 
precipices  as  by  the  awful  reverence  with  which,  at 
that  time,  all  ranks  beheld  the  character  of  a  recluse. 
Indeed,  the  poor  old  man,  who  tenanted  the  little 
hollow  at  the  summit  of  a  crag,  beneath  whicii  the 
Athyras  rolls  its  impetuous  torrent,  was  not  famed 
for  the  severity  of  his  penances,  or  the  strictness  of 
his  mortifications.  That  he  was  either  studious,  or 
protracted  his  devotions  to  a  late  hour,  was  evident, 
for  his  lamp  was  ofleo  seen  to  stream  through  the 


K.iRKE  WHITE.  157 

trees  which  shaded  his  dwelling,  when  accident  called 
any  of  the  peasants  from  their  beds  at  unseasonable 
hours.  Be  this  as  it  may,  no  miracles  were  imputed 
to  him  ;  the  sick  rarely  came  to  petition  for  the  benefit 
of  his  prayers,  and,  though  some  both  loved  him, 
and  had  good  reason  for  loving  him,  yet  many  under- 
valued him  for  the  want  of  that  very  austerity  \yhich 
the  old  man  seemed  most  desirous  to  avoid. 

It  was  evening,  and  the  long  shadows  of  the  Thra- 
cian  mountains  were  extending  still  farther  and  farther 
along  the  plains,  when  this  old  man  was  disturbed  in 
his  meditations  by  the  approach  of  a  stranger.  'How 
far  is  it  to  Byzantium  ?'  was  the  question  put  by  tRe 
traveller.  'Nol  far  to  those  who  know  the  country,' 
replied  the  hermit ;  '  but  a  stranger  would  not  easily 
find  his  way  through  the  windings  of  these  woods, 
and  the  intricacies  of  tho  "plains  beyond  them.  Do 
you  see  that  blue  mist  which  stretches  along  the 
bounding  line  of  the  horizon  as  far  as  the  trees  will 
permit  the  eye  to  trace  it?  That  is  the  Propontis: 
and  higher  up  on  the  left,  the  city  of  Constantinople 
rears  its  proud  head  above  the  waters.  But  I  would 
dissuade  thee,  stranger,  from  pursuing  thy  journey 
farther  to-night.  Thou  mayest  rest  in  the  viliage, 
which  is 'half  way  down  the  hill;  or  if  thou  wilt 
share  my  supper  of  roots,  and  put  up  with  a  bed  of 
leaves,  my  cell  is  open  to  thee.' — 'I  thank  thee, 
father,'  replied  the  youth  :  '  I  am  weary  with  my 
journey,  and  will  accept  thy  proSered  hospitality.' 
They  ascended  the  rock  together.  The  hermit's  cell 
was  the  work  of  nature.  It  penetrated  far  into  the 
rock,  and  in  the  innermost  recess,  was  a  little  chapel, 
furnished  with  a  crucifix  and  a  human  skull,  the 
objects  of  the  hermit's  nightly  and  daily  contempla- 
14 


168  KIRKE  WHITE. 

tion,  for  neither  of  them  received  his  adoration.  That 
corruption  had  not  as  yet  crept  into  the  Christian 
church.  The  hermit  now  lighted  up  a  fire  of  dry 
sticks  (for  the  nights  are  very  piercing  in  the  regions 
about  the  Hellespont  and  the  Bosphorus,)  and  then 
proceeded  to  prepare  a  vegetable  meal.  While  he 
was  thus  employed,  his  young  guest  surveyed,  with 
surprise,  the  dwelling  which  he  was  to  inhabit 
for  the  night.  A  cold  rock-hole  on  the  bleak  summit 
of  one  of  the  Thracian  hills  seemed  to  him  a  com- 
fortless choice  for  a  weak  and  solitary  old  man.  The 
rude  materials  of  his  scanty  furniture  still  more  sur- 
prised him.  A  table  fixed  to  the  ground,  a  wooden 
bench,  an  earthen  lamp,  a  number  of  rolls  of  papyrus 
and  vellilm,  and  a  heap  of  leaves  in  a  corner,  the 
hermit's  bed,  were  all  his  stock.  '  Is  it  possible,'  at 
length  he  exclaimed, '  that  you  can  tenant  this  com- 
fortless cave,  with  these  scanty  accommodations, 
through  choice  ?  Go  with  me,  old  man,  to  Constanti- 
nople, and  receive  from  me  those  conveniences  which 
befit  your  years.  '  And  what  art  thou  going  to  do  at 
Constantinople,  my  young  friend  ?'  said  the  hermit, 
'  for  thy  dialect  bespeaks  thee  a  native  of  more 
southern  regions.  Am  I  mistaken — art  thou  not  an 
Athenian  ?  '  I  am  an  Athenian,'  replied  the  youth, 
'  by  birth,  but  I  hope  not  an  Athenian  in  vice.  I  have 
left  my  degenerate  birthplace  in  quest  of  happiness. 
I  have  learned  from  my  master,  Speusippus,  a 
genuine  asserter  of  the  much  belied  doctrines  qf  Epi- 
curus, that  as  a  future  state  is  a  mere  phantom  and 
vagary  of  the  brain,  it  is  the  only  true  wisdom  to  en- 
joy life  while  we  have  it.  But  I  have  learned  from 
him,  also,  that  virtue  alone  is  true  enjoyment.  I  am 
resolved,  therefore,  to  enjoy  life,  and  that  too  witli 


KIRK.E    WHITE. 


159 


virtue  as  my  companion  and  guide.  My  travels  are 
begun  with  the  design  of  discovering  where  I  can  best 
unite  both  objects  :  enjoyment  the  .most  exquisite, 
with  virtue  the  most  perfect.  You  perhaps  may  have 
reached  the  latter,  my  good  ftither;  the  former  you 
have  certainly  missed. ,  To-morrow  I  shall  continue 
^my  search.  At  Constantinople,  I  shall  laugh  and 
sing  with  the  gay,  meditate  with  the  sober,  drink 
deeply  of  every  unpolluted  pleasure,  and  taste  all  the 
fountains  of  wisdom  and  philosophy.  I  have  heard 
much  of  the  a.ccomplishments  of  the  women  of  By- 
zantium. With  us,  females  are  mere  household- 
slaves;  here,  I  am  told,  they  have  minds.  I  almost 
promise  myself  that  I  shall  marry  and  settle  at  Con- 
stantinople, where  the  loves  and  graces  seem  alone  to 
reside,  and  where  even  the  zoomen  have  minds.  My 
good  father,  how  the  winds' roar  about  this  aerial  nest 
of  yours,  and  here  you  sit,  during  the  long  cold  nights 
all  alone,  cold  and  cheerless,  when  Constantinople  is 
just  at  your  feet,  with  all  its  joys,  its  comforts,  and 
its  elegancies.  I  perceive  that  the  philosophers  of  our 
sect,  who  succeeded  Epicurus,  were  right,  when  they 
taught  that  there  might  be  virtue  without  enjoyment, 
and  that  virtue  without  enjoym.ent  is  not  worth  the 
having.'  The  face  of  the  youth  kindled  with  anima- 
tion as  he>  spake  these  words,  and  he  visibly  enjoyed 
the  consciousness  of  superior  intelligence.  The  old 
man  sighed  and  was  silent.  As  they  ate  th^ir  frugal 
supper,  both  parties  seemed  involved  in  deep  thought. 
The  young  traveller  was  dreaming  of  the  Byzantine 
women:  his  host  seemed  occupied  with  far  different 
meditations.  '  So  you  are  travelling  to  Constantinople 
in  search  of  happiness?'  at  length  exclaimed  the 
hermit:  '  I  too  have  been  a  suitor  of  that  divinitVi 


160  KIKKE   WHITE. 

and  it  may  be  of  use  to  you  to  hear  how  I  have  fared. 
The  history  of  my  life  will  serve  to  fill  up  the  interval 
before  we  retire  to  rest,  and  my  experience  may  not 
prove  altogether  useless  to  one  who  is  about  to  go  the 
same  journey  which  I  have  finished. 

'  These  scanty  hairs  of  mine  were  not  always  gray, 
nor  these  limbs  decrepid:  I  was  once,  like  th^e, 
young,  fresh,  and  vigorous,  full  of  delightful  dreams, 
and  gay  anticipations.  Life  seemed  a  garden  of 
sweets,  a  path  of  roses;  and  I  thought  I  had  but  to 
choose  in  what  way  I  would  be  happy  I  will  pass 
over  the  incidents  of  rty  boyhood,  and  come  to  my 
maturer  years.  I  had  scarcely  seen  twenty  summers, 
when  I  formed  one  of  those  extravagant  and  ardent 
attachments,  of  which  youth  is  so  susceptible.  It 
happened  that,  at  that  time,  I  bore  arms  under  the 
emperor  Theodosius,  in  his  expedition  against  the 
Goths,  who  had  overrun  a  part  of  Thrace.  In  our 
return  from  a  successful  campaign,  we  staid  some 
time  in  the  Greek  cities  which  border  on  the  Euxine. 
In  one  of  these  cities  I  became  acquainted  with  a 
female,  whose  form  was  not  more  elegant  than  her 
mind  was  cultivated,  and  her  heart  untainted.  I  had 
done  her  family  some  trivial  services,  and  her  grati- 
tude spoke  too*  warmly  to  my  intoxicated  bi'ain  to 
leave  any  doubt  on  my  mind  that  she  loved  me.  The 
idea  was  too  exquisitely  pleasing  to  be  soon  dismissed. 
I  sought  every  occasion  of  being  with  her.  Her  mild 
persuasive  voice  seemed  like  the  music  of  heaven  to 
my  ears,  after  the  toils  and  roughness  of  a  soldier's 
life.  I  had  a  friend,  too,  whose  converse,  next  to  that 
of  the  dear  object  of  my  secret  love,  was  most  dear  to 
me.  He  formed  the  third  in  all  our  meetings ;  and 
beyond  the  enjoyment  of  the  society  of  these  two,  I 


KIKKE    WHITE.  161 

had  not  a  wish.  I  had  never  yet  spoke  explicitly  to 
my  female  friend,  but  I  fondly  hoped  we  understood 
each  other.  Why  should  I  dwell  on  the  subject  ? 
I  was  mistaken.  My  friend  threw  himself  on  my 
mercy.  I  found  that  he,  not  I,  was  the  object  of  her 
afiections.  Young  man,  you  may  conceive,  but  I 
cannot  describe,  what  I  felt,  as  I  joined  their  hands. 
The  stroke  was  severe,  and  for  a  time  unfitted  me 
for  the  duties  of  my  station.  I  suffered  the  army  to 
leave  the  place  without  accompanying  it:  and  thus 
lost  the  reward  of  my  past  services,  and  forfeite.i  the 
favour  of  my  sovereign.  This  was  another  source  of 
anxiety  and  regret  to  me,  as  my  mind  recovered  itq 
wonted  tone.  But  the  mind  of  youth,  however  deeply 
it  may  feel  for  awhile,  eventually  rises  up  from  dejec- 
tion, and  regains  its  wonted  elasticity.  That  vigor 
by  which  the  spirit  recovers  itself  from  the  depths  of 
usejess  regret,  and  enters  upon  new  prospects  with  its 
accustomed  ardor,  is  only  subdued  by  time.  I  now 
applied  myself  to  the  study  of  philosophy,  under  a 
Greek  master,  and  all  my  ambition  was  directed 
towards  letters.  But  ambition  is  not  quite  enough  to 
fill  a  young  man's  heart.  I  still  felt  a  void  there, 
and  sighed  as  I  reflected  on  the  happiness  of  my 
friend.  At  the  time  when  I  yisited  the  object  of  my 
first  love,  a  young  Christian  woman,  her  frequent 
companion,  had  sometimes  taken  my  attention.  She 
was  an  Ionian  by  birth,  and  had  all  the  softness  and 
pensive  intelligence  which  her  countrywomen  are  said 
to  possess  when  unvitiated  by  the  corruptions  so  pre- 
valent in  that  delightful  region.  You  are  no  stranger 
to  the  contempt  with  which  the  Greeks  then  treated, 
and  do  still,  in  some  places,  treat  the  Christians.  This 
young  woman  bore  that  .cPQtempt  with  &  calmnesv 
14* 


162  KIRKE    WHITE. 

which  surprised  me.  There  was  then  but  few  con- 
verts to  that  religion  in  those  parts,  and  its  profession 
was  therefore  more  exposed  to  ridicule  and  persecu- 
tion from  its  strangeness.  Notwithstanding  her  reli- 
gion, I  thought  I  could  love  this  interesting  and 
amiable  female,  and,  in  spite  of  my  former  mistake, 
I  had  the  vanity  to  imagine  I  was  not  indifferentv  to 
her.  As  our  intimacy  increased,  I  learned,  to  ray 
astonishment,  that  she  regarded  me  as  one  involved  in 
ignorance  and  error;  and  that,  although  she  felt  as 
affection  for  me,  she  would  never  become  my  wife 
while  I  remained  devoted  to  the  religion  of  my  ances- 
tors. Piqued  at  this  discovery,  I  received  the  books, 
w"hi<ih  she  now  for  the  first  time  put  into  my  hands, 
with  pity  and  contempt.  I  expected  to  find  them 
'  nothing  but  the  repositories  of  a  miserable  and  de 
luded  superstition,  more  presuming  than  the  mystical 
leaves  of  the  Sibyls,  or  the  obscure  triads  of  Zoroas- 
ter. How  was  I  mistaken!  There  was  much  which 
I  could  not  at  all  comprehend;  but,  in  the  midst  of 
this  darkness,  the  effect  of  my  ignorance,  I  discerned 
a  system  of  morality  so  exalted,  so  exquisitely  pure, 
and  so  far  removed  from  all  I  could  have  conceived 
of  the  most  perfect  virtue,  that  all  the  philosophy  of 
the  Grecian  world  seemed  worse  than  dross  in  the 
comparison.  My  former  learning  had  only  served  to 
teach  me  that  something  was  wanting  to  complete 
the  systems  of  philosophers.  Here  that  invisible  link 
was  supplied,  and  I  could  even  then  observe  a  har- 
mony and  consistency  in  the  whole  which  carried'irre- 
sistible  convicti«n  to  my  mind.  I  will  not  enlarge  on 
this  subject.  Christianity  is  not  a  mere  set  of  opi- 
nions to  be  embraced  by  the  understanding.  It  is  the 
work  of  the  heart  as  well  as  the  head.     Let  it  suffice 


KIRKE    WHITE.  16S 

to  say  that,  in  time,  I  became  a  Christian,  and  the 

husband  of  Sapphira. 

******* 

CENSORIOUS  NESS. 

When  I  was  in  Nottingham,  I  gave  way  too  much 
to  a  practice,  which  prevails  there  in  a  shameful  de- 
gree, of  sitting  in  judgment  on  the  attainmen!s  and 
experience  of  others.  At  this  time  there  was  darkness 
enough  in  my  own  heart  to  have  employed  all  my 
attention,  and!  think  it  may  be  generally  asserted, 
that  those  who  are  the  readiest  to  examine  others  are 
the  most  backward  to  examine  themselves;  that  the 
more  we  feel  inclined  to  scrutinize  our  brother  Chris- 
tians with  severity,  the  less  able  are  we  to  endure  such 
a  scrutiny  ourselves.  Before  Christianity  can  arrive 
at  any  degree  of  perfection,  we  must  have  less  tongue 
and  more  heart  work.  If  a  man  be  faithful  to  his  con- 
victions, he  will  find  too  much  to  do  at  home  to  busy 
himself  with  what  he  has  no  opportunities  of  suffi- 
ciently knowing, — his  neighbor's  heart.  We  are  to 
consider  ourselves  at  all  times  as  miserably  ignorant; 
And  it  is  only  while  we  do  consider  ourselves  as  such 
that  we  are  in  a  disposition  to  learn  of  a  teacher 
so  averse  to  the  pride  of  the  human  heart  as  JesuSs 
Christ. 

CHILDREN 

I  hope  you  concluded  the  Christmas  holidays  on 
Monday  evening  with  the  customary  glee;  and  I  hope 
my  uncle  was  well  enough  to  partake  of  your  merri- 
ment. You  must  now  begin  your  penitential  days, 
after  so  much  riot  and  feasting  ',  and,  with  yoUr  three 
little  prattlers  around  you,  1  am  sure  your  evenings 
will  flow  pleasantly  by  your  own  fire-side.      Visiting 


164  EIRKE   WHITK. 

and  gaiety  are  very  well  by  way  of  change;  but  there 
is  no  enjoyment  so  lasting  as  that  of  one's  own  family. 
Elizabeth  will  soon  be  old  enough  to  amuse  you  with 
her  conversation;  and,  I  trust,  you  will  take  every 
opportunity  of  teaching  her  to  put  the  right  value  on 
things,  and  to  exercise  her  own  good  sense.  It  is 
amazing  how  soon  a  child  may  become  a  real  comfort 
to  its  mother,  and  how  much  even  young  minds  will 
form  habits, of  affection  towards  those  who  treat  them 
like  reasonable  beings,  capable  of  seeing  the  right  and 
the  wrong  of  themselves.  A  very  little  girl  may  be 
njade  to  understand  that  there  are  some  things  which 
are  pleasant  and  amusing,  which  are  still  less  worthy 
of  attention  than  others  more  disagreeable  and  painful.' 
Children  are,  in  general,  fond  of  little  ornaments  of 
dress,  especially  females;  and  though  we  may  allow 
them  to  be  elevated  with  their  trifling  splendors,  yet  we 
should  not  forget  to  remind  them,  that,  although  peo- 
ple may  admire  their  dress,  yet  they  will  admire  them 
much  more  for  their  good  sense,  sweetness  of  temper, 
and  generosity  of  disposition.  Children  are  very  quick- 
sighted  to  discern  whether  you  approve  of  them,  and 
they  are  very  proud  of  your  approbation  when  they 
think  you  bestow  it:  we  should  therefore  be  careful 
how  we  praise  them,  and  for  what.  If  we  praise  their 
dress,  it  should  be  slightly,  and  as  if  it  were  a  matter 
of  very  small  importance;  but  we  should  never  let  any 
mark  of  consideration,  or  goodness  of  heart,  in  a  child, 
pass  by,  without  some  token  of  approbation.  Still  we 
must  never  praise  a  child  too  much,  nor  too  warmly, 
for  that  would  beget  vanity:  and  when  praise  is  mode 
rately  yet  judiciously  bestowed,  a  child  values  it  more, 
because  it  feels  that  it  is  just.  I  don't  like  punishments 
You  will  never  torture  a  child  into  dulv;  but   a  sensi 


KIKKE  WHITE.  1C5 

l)!c;  child  will  dread  the  frown  of  a  judicious  mother, 
wore  than  all  the  rods,  dark  rooms,  and  scolding 
school-mistresses  in  the  universe.  We  should  teach  our 
children  to  make  friends  of  us,  to  communicate  all  their 
thoughts  to  us;  and  while  their  innocent  prattle  will 
amuse  us,  we  shall  find  many  opportunities  of  teaching 
them  important  truths,  almost  without  knowing  it. 

COMPOSITION. 

The  rules  of  composition  are,  in  my  opinion,  very 
few.  If  we  have  a  mature  acquaintance  with  our  sub- 
ject, there  is  little  fear  of  our  expressing  it  as  we  ought, 
provided  we  have  had  some  little  experience  in  writing. 
The  first  thing  to  be  aimed  at  is  perspicuity.  That  is 
the  great  point,  which,  once  attained,  will  make  all 
other  obstacles  smooth  to  us.  In  order  to  write  per 
spicuously  we  should  have  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
topic  on  which  we  arc  about  to  treat,  in  all  its  bearings 
and  dependencies.  We  should  think  well  beforehand 
what  will  be  the  clearest  mfethod  of  conveying  the  drift 
of  our  design.  This  is  similar  to  what  the  painters  call 
the  massing,  or  getting  the  effect  of  the  more  promi- 
nent lights  and  shades  by  broad  dashes  of  the  pencil. 
When  our  thesis  is  well  arranged  in  our  mind,  and  we 
have  predisposed  our  arguments,  reasonings,  and  illus- 
trations, so  as  they  shall  conduce  to  the  object  in  view, 
in  regular  sequence  and  gradation,  we  may  sit  down 
and  express  our  ideas  in  as  clear  a  manner  as  we  can, 
always  using  such  words  as  are  most  suited  to  our 
purpose;  and  when  two  modes  of  expression,  equally 
luminous,  present  themselves,  selecting  that- which  is 
the  most  harmonious  and  elegant. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  writers,  in  aiming  at  per- 
epicuity,   overreach    themselves,    by,  employing    too 


166  KIRKE   WBITE. 

many  words,  and  perplex  the  mind' by  a  multiplicity  of 
illustrations.  This  is  a  very  fatal  error.  Circumlo- 
cution seldom  conduces  to  plainness  ;  and  you  may 
take  it  as  a  ma.xim,  that  when  once  an  idea  is  clearly 
expressed,  every  additional  stroke  will  only  confuse 
the  mind,  and  diminish  the  effect. 

When  you  have  once  learned  to  express  yourself 
with  clearness  and  propriety,  you  will  soon  arrive  at 
elegance,  Every  thing  else,  in  fact,  will  follow  as  of 
course.  But  I  warn  you  not  to  invert  the  order  of 
things,  and  be  paying  your  addresses  to  the  Graces, 
when  you  ought  to  be  studying  perspicuity.  Young 
writers,  in  general,  are  too  solicitous  to  round  off  their 
periods,  and  ■  regulate  the  cadences  of  their  style. 
Hence  the  feeble  pleonasms  and  idle  repetitions  which' 
deform  their  pages.  If  you  would  have  your  compo- 
sitions vigorous,  and  masculine  in  their  tone,  let  every 
word  tell;  and  when  you  defect  yourself  polishing  off 
a  sentence  with  expletives,  regard  yourself  in  exactly 
the  same  predicament  with  a  poet  who  should  eke  out 
the  measure  of  his  verses  with  ^titum",  titom,  tee,  sir.' 

So  much  for  style — 

#         *         *         ***         41         * 

.  Accustom  yourself  to  \vrjte  down  your  thoughts,  and 
to  polish  the  style  some  time  after  composition,  when 
you  have  forgotten  the  expression.  Aim  at  concise- 
ness, neatness,  and  clearness  ;  never  make  use  of  fine 
or  vulgar  words.  Avoid  every  epithet  which  does  hot 
add  greatly  to  the  idea,  for  every  addition  of  this 
kind,  if  it  do  not  strengthen,  weakens  the  sentiment  ; 
and  be  cautious  never  to  express  by  two  words  what 
you  can  do  as  well  by  one  :  a  multiplicity  of  worda 
only  hides  the  sense,  just  .as  a  superabundance  of 
clothes  does  the  shape.     This  much  for  studies. 


KIRKE    WHITE.  167 


CONFIDENCE    IN    SELF. 

As  to  the  something  that  I  am  to  find  out,  that  is 
a  perpetual  bar  to  your  progress  in  knowledge,  &c., 
I  am«inclined  to  think.  Doctor,  it  is  merely  conceit. 
You  fancy  that  you  cannot  jvrite  a  letter — you  dread 
its  idea;  you  conceive  that  a  work  of  four  volumes 
would  require  the  labors  of  a  life  to  read  through; 
you  persuade  yourself  that  you  cannot  retain  what 
you  read,  and  in  despair  not  to  attempt  to  conquer 
these  visiohary  impediments.  Confidencci  Neville, 
in  one's  own  abilities,  is  a  sure  forerunner  (in  similar 
circumstances  with  the  present)  of  success.  As  an 
illustration  of  this,  I  beg  leave  to  adduce  the  example 
of  Pope,  who  had  so  high  a  sense,  in  his  youth,  or 
rather  in  his  infancy,  of  his  own  capacity,  that  there 
was  nothing  of  which,  when  once  set  about,  he  did 
not  think  himself  capable;, and,  as  Dr.  Johnson  has  ob- 
served, the  natural  consequence  of  this  minute  per- 
ception of  his  own  powers  was  his  arriving  at  as  high 
a  pitch  of  perfection  as  it  was  possible  for  a  man  with 
his  few  natural  endowments  to  attain. 

DESPONDENCE. 

And  now,  my  dear  Ben,  I  must  confess  your  letter 
gave  me  much  pain;  there  is  a  tone  of  despondence  in 
it  which  I  must  condemn,  inasmuch  as  it  is  occasioned 
by  circumstances  which  »do  not  involve  your  own  ex- 
ertions, but  which  are  utterly  independent  of  yourself: 
if  you  do  your  duty,  why  lament  that  it  is  not  pro- 
ductive ?  In  whatever  situation  we  may  be  placed, 
there  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  God  and  religion:  it  is 
resignation; — nay,    I   may    say    contentment.       All 


16S  KIRKE  WHITE. 

things  are  in  the  hands  of  God;  and  shall  we  mortals 
(if  we  do  not  absolutely  repine  at  his  dispensations) 
be  fretful  under  them?  I  do  beseech  you,  my  dear 
Ben,  summon  up  the  Christian  within  you,  and, 
steeled  with  holy  fortitude,  go  on  your  way  rej<jicing! 
There  is  a  species  of  morbid  sensibility  to  which  I 
myself  have  often  been  a  victim,  which  preys  upon 
my  heart,  and,  without  giving  birth  to  one  actively 
useful  or  benevolent  feeling,  does  but  brood  on  selfish 
sorrows,  and  magnify  its  own  misfortunes.  The  evils 
of  such  a  sensibility,  I  pray  to  God  you  may  never 
feel;  but  I  would  have  you  beware,  for  it  grows  on 
persons  of  a  certain  disposition  before  they  are  aware 
of  it. 


There  are  sorrows,  and  there  are  misfortunes  which 
bow  down  the  spirit  beyond  the  aid  of  all  human 
comfort.  Of  these,  I  know,  my  dear  Ben,  you  have 
had  more  than  common  experience;  but  while  the 
cup  of  life  does  oVevflow  with  draughts  of  such  ex- 
treme asperity,  we  ought  to  fortify  ourselves  against 
lesser  evils,  as  unimportant  to  man,  who  has  much 
heavier  woes  to  expect,  and  to  the  Christian,  whose 
joys  are  laid  beyond  the  verge  of  mortal  existence. 
There  are  afflictions,  there  are  privations,  where  death 
and  hopes  irrecoverably  blasted,  leave  no  prospect  of 
retrivial;  when  I  would  no  more  say  to  the  mourner 
'  Man,  wherefore  weepest  thou?'  than  I  would  ask 
the  winds  why  they  blew,  or  the  tempest  why  it  raged. 
Sorrows  like  these  are  sacred;  but  the  inferior  troubles 
of  partial  separation,  vexatious  occupation,  and  op- 
posing current  of  human  affairs,  are  such  as  ought 
not,  at  least  immoderately,  to  affect  a  Christian,  but 


KIREE     WHITE.  169 

rather  ought  to  be  contemplated  as  the  necessary  Oc- 
cidents of  life,  and  disregarded  while  their  pains  are 
more  sensibly  felt. 

Do  not  think,  I  beseech  you,  my^ear  Ben,  that  I 
wish  to  represent  your  sorrows,  as  light  or  trivial* 
I  know  they  are  not  light;  I  know  they  are  not 
trivial;  but  I  wish  to  induce  you  to  summon  up  the 
man  within  you;  and  while  those  unhappy  troubles, 
which  you  cannot  alleviate,  must  continue  to  torment 
you,  I  would  e.xhort  you  to  rise  superior  to  the  crosses 
of  life,  and  shew  yourself  a  genuine  disciple  of  Jesus 
Christ,  in  the  endurance  of  evil  without  repining,  or 
unavailable  lamentations.         ' 

Blest  as  you  are  with  the  good  testimony  of  an  ap- 
proving conscience,  and  happy  in  an  intimate  com- 
munion with  the  all-pure  and  all-merciful  God,  these 
trifling  concerns  ought  not  to  molest  you;  nay,  were 
the  tide  of  adversity  to  turn  strong  against  you, 
even  were  your  friends  to  forsake  you,  and  ■  abject 
poverty  to  stare  you  in  the  face,  you  ought  to  be 
abundantly  thankful  to  God  for  his  mercies  to  you; 
you  ought  to  consider  yourself  still  as  ri.ch,  yea,  to 
look  around  you,  and  say,  I  am  far  happier  than 
the  sons  of  men. 

This  is  a  system  of  philosophy  which,  for  myself, 
I  shall  not  only  preach  but  practice.  We  are  here  for 
nobler  purposes  than  to  waste  the  fleeting  moments 
of  our  lives  in  lamentations  and  wailings  over  troubles, 
which,  in  their  widest  extent,  do  but  effect  the  present 
state,  and  which,  perhaps,  only  regard  our  personal 
ease  and  prosperity.  Make  me  an  outcast — a  beggar; 
place  me,  a  barefooted  pilgrim,  on  the  top  of  the  Alps 
or  the  Pyrenees,  and  I  should  have  wherewithal  to 

sustain  the  epii'it  within  me,  in  the  reflection  that  all 
15 


1-Q  KIRKE    WHITE. 

tlus  was  but  for  a  moment,  and  that  a  period  would 
come,  when  wrong,  and  injury,  and  trouble  should  be 
no  more.  Are  we  to  be  so  utterly  enslaved  by  habit 
and  association,  that  we  shall  spend  our  lives  in  anxi- 
ety and  bitter  care,  only  that  we  may  find  a  covering 
for  our  bodies,  or  the  means  of  assuaging  hunger .' 
for  what  else  is  an  anxiety  after  the  world.'  Or  are 
even  the  followers  of  Christ  themselves  to  be  infected 
with  the  inane,  the  childish  desire  of  heaping  together 
wealth?  Were  a  man,  in  the  way  of  making  a  large 
fortune,  to  take  yp  his  hat  and  stick,  and  say,  '  I  am 
useless  here  and  unhappy;  I  will  go  and  abide  with 
the  Genfoo,  or  the  Paraguay,  where  I  shall  be  happy 
and  useful,'  he  would  be  laughed  at;  but  I  say  he 
would  prove  himself  a  more  reasonable  and  virtuous 
man  than  him  who  binds  himself  down  to  a  business 
which  he  dislikes,  because  it  would  be  accounted 
strange,  or  foolish,  to  abandon  so  good  a  concern, 
and  who  heaps  up  wealth,  for  which  he  has  little 
relish,  because  the  world  accounts  its  policy. 

I  hope  and  trust  that  you  have  at  length  arrived  at 
that  happy  temperament  of  disposition,  that  although 
you  have  much  cause  of  sadness  within,  you  are  yet 
willing  to  be  amused  with  the  variegated  scenes 
around  you,  and  to  join,  when  occasions  persent 
themselves  in  innocent  mirth.  Thus,  in  the  course 
of  your  peregrinations,  occurrences  must  continually 
arise,  which,  to  a  mind  willing  to  make  the  best  of 
every  thing,  will  afford  amusement  of  the  chastest 
kind.  Men  and  manners  are  a  never-failing  source  of 
wonder  and  surprise,  as  they  present  themselves  in 
their  various  phases.  We  may  very  innocently  laugh 
at  the  brogue  of  a  Somerset  peasant — and  I  should 


KIRKE.  WHITE.  171 

think  that  person  both  cynical  and  surly,  who  would 
pass  by  a  group  of  laughing  children,  without  parti- 
cipating in  their  delight,  and  joining  in  their  laugh, 
ft  is  a  truth  most  undeniable,  and  most  melancholy, 
that  there  is  too  much  in  human  life  which  extorts 
'.ems  and  groans,  rather  than  smiles.  This,  however, 
-B  equally  certain,  that  our  giving  way  to  unremitting 
sadness  on  these  accounts,  so  far  from  ameliorating 
the  condition  of  mortality,  only  adds  to  the  aggregate 
of  human  misery,  and  throws  a  gloom  over  those 
moments  when  a  ray  of  light  is  permitted  to  visit  the 
dark  valley  of  life,  and  the  heart  ought  to  be  making 
the  best  of  its  fleeting  happiness.  Landscape,  too, 
ought  to  be  a  source  of  delight  to  you;  fine  buildings, 
objects  of  nature,  and  a  thousand  things  which  it 
would  be  tedious  to  name.  I  should  call  the  man 
who  could  survey  such  things  as  these  without  being 
affected  with  pleasure,  either  a  very  weak-minded 
and  foolish  person,  or  one  of  no  mind  at  all.     To  be 

-  always  sad,  and  always  ponderihg  on  internal  griefs, 
is  what  I  call  utter  selfishness:  I  would  not  give  two- 
pence ibr  a  being  who  is  locked  up  in  his  own  suflfer- 
ings,  and  whose  heart  cannot  respond  to  the  exhi- 
larating cry  of  nature,  or  rejoice  because  he  sees  others 
rejoice.  The  loud  and  unanimous  chirping  of  the 
birds  ^n  a  fine  sunny  morning  pleases  me,  because  I 
see  they  are  happy;  and  I  should  be  very  selfish  did 
I  not  participate  in  their  seeming  joy.  Do  not,  how- 
ever, suppose  that  I  mean  to  exclude  a  man's  own 
sorrows  from  his  thoughts,  since  that  is  an  impossi- 

;  bility,  and,  were  it  possible,  would  be  prejudicial  to 
the  human  heart.  I  only  mean  that  the  whole  mind 
is  not  to  be  incessantly  engrossed  with  cares,  but  with 
cheerful  elasticity  to  bend  itself  occasionally  to  circum-. 


s  172  KIRKE    WHITE. 

stances,  arid  give  way  without  hesitation  to  pleasing 
emotions.  To  be  pleased  with  little  is  one  of  the 
greatest  blessings. 

Sadness  is  itself  sometimes  infinitely  more  pleasing 
than  joy;  but  this  sadness  must  be  of  the  expansive 
and  generous  kind,  rather  referring  to  mankind  at 
large,  than  the  individual;  and  this  is  a  feeling  not 
incompatible  with  cheerfulness  and  a  contented  spirit. 
There  is  difficulty,  however,  in  setting  bounds  to  a 
pensive  disposition;  I  have  felt  it,  and  I  have  felt 
that  I  am  not  always  adequate  to  the  task.  I  sailed 
from  Hull  to  Barton  the  day  before  yesterday,  on  a 
rough  and  windy  day,  in  a  vessel  filled  with  a 
marching  regiment  of  soldiers:  the  band  played 
finely,  and  I  was  enjoying  the  many  pleasing  emo- 
tions, which  the  water,  sky,  winds,  and  musical  in- 
struments excited,  when  my  thoughts  were  suddenly 
called  away  to  more  melancholy  subjects.  A  girl, 
genteelly  dressed,  and  with  a  countenance  which,  for 
its  loveliness,  a  painter  might  have  copied  for  Hebe, 
with  a  loud  laugh  seized  me  by  the  great  coat,  and 
asked  me  to  lend  it  her:  she  was  one  of  those  unhappy 
creatures  who  depend  on  the  brutal  and  licentious  for 
a  bitter  livelihood,  and  was  now  following  in  the  train 
of  one  of  the  officers.  I  was  greatly  aficcted  by  her 
appearance  and  situation,  and  more  so  by  that  of 
another  female  who  was  with  her,  and  who,  with  less 
beauty,  had  a  wild  sorrowfulness  in  her  face,  which 
showed  she  knew  her  situation.  This  incident,  appa- 
rently trifling,  induced  a  train  of  reBections,  which 
occupied  me  fully  during  a  walk  of  six  or  seven  miles 
to  our  parsonage.  At  first  I  wished  that  I  had  fortune 
to  erect  an  asylum  for  all  the  miserable  and  destitute: 
— and  there  was  a  soldier's  wife,    with  a  wan  and 


KIRKE    WHITE.  i  1"3 

haggard  face,  and  a  little  infant  in  her  arms,  whom 
I  would  also  have  wished  to  place  in  it: — I  then 
grew  out  of  humor  with  the  world,  because  it  was  so 
unfeeling  and  so  miserable,  and  because  there  was  no 
cure  for  its  miseries  :  and  I  wished  for  a  lodging  in  the 
wilderness,  where  I  might  hear  no  more  of  wrongs, 
affliction,  or  vice:  but,  after  all  my  speculations,  1  found 
there  was  a  reason  for  these  things  in  the  Gospel  of 
Jesus  Christ,  and  that,  to  those  who  sought  it,  there 
was  also  a  cure.  So  I  ban'shed  my  vain  meditations, 
and,  knowing  that  God's  providence  is  better  able  to 
direct  the  affairs  of  men  than  our  wisdom,  I  leave 
them  in  his  hands. 

«  *  *  *  *  *  «■« 
Forebodings  and  dismal  calculations  are,  I  am  con- 
vinced, very  useless,  and'  I  think  very  pernicious  spe- 
culations— '  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.' 
— And  yet  how  apt  are  we,  when  eminent  trials  molest 
us,  to  increase  the  burden  by  melancholy  ruminations 
on  future  evils! — evils  which  exisi  only  in  our  own 
imaginations — and  which,  should  they  be  realized, 
will  certainly  arrive  in  time  to  oppress  us  sufficiently 
without  our  adding  to  their  existence  by  previous 
apprehension,  and  thus  voluntarily  incurring  the  pe- 
nalty of  misfortunes  yet  in  perspective,  and  trials 
yet  unborn.  Let  us  guard,  then,  I  beseech  you, 
against  these  ungrateful  divinations  into  the  womb  of 
futurity: — we  know  our  affairs  are  in  the  hands  of  one 
who  has  wisdom  to  do  for  us  beyond  our  narrow 
prudence,  and  we  cannot,  by  taking  thought,  avoid 
any  afflictive  dispensation  which  God's  providence 
may  have  in  store  for  us.  Let  us  therefore  enjoy 
with  thankfulness  the  present  sunshine,  without  ad- 
verting to  the  common  storm.  Few  and  transitory 
15* 


174  KIRKE   WHITE. 

are  the  intervals  of  calm  and  settled  day  with  which 
we  are  cheered  in  the  tempestuous  voyage  of  life;  we 
ought  therefore  to  enjoy  them,  while  they  last,  with 
unmixed  delight,  and  'not  turn  the  blessing  into  a 
curse  by  lamenting  that  it  cannot  endure  without 
interruption.  We,  my  beloved  friend,  are  united  in 
our  affections  by  no  common  bands — bands  which,  I 
trust,  are  too  strong  to  be  easily  dissevered: — yet  we 
know  not  what  God  may  intend  with  respect  to  us, 
nor  have  we  any  business  to  inquire — we  should  rely 
on  the  mercy  of  our  Father,  who  is  in  heaven — and  if 
we  are  to  anticipate,  we  should  hope  the  best.  I 
stand  self-accused  therefore  for  my  prurient,  and,  I 
may  say,  irreligious  fears.  A  prudent  foresight,  as 
it  may  guard  us  from  many  impending  dangers,  is 
laudable  ;  but  a  morbid  propensity  to  seize  and  brood 
over  future  ills  is  agonizing,  while  it  is  utterly  useless, 
and  therefore  ought  to  be  repressed. 

I  begin  now  to  feel  at  home  in  my  little  room,  and 
I  wish  you  were  here  to  see  how  snugly  I  sit  by  my 
blazing  fire  in  the  cold  evenings.  College  certainly 
has  charms,  though  I  have  a  few  things  rankling  at 
my  heart;  which  will^not  let  me  be  quite  happy. — Ora, 
ora,  pro  me. 

This  last  sentence  of  mine  is  of  a  very  curious  ten- 
dency, to  be  sure:  for  who  is  there  of  mortals  who 
has  not  something  rankling  at  his  heart,  which  will 
not  let  him  be  happy  ? 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  different  estimations 
two  men  make  of  one  another's  happiness.  Each  of 
them  surveys  the  external  appearance  ,  of  the  other's 
situation,  and,  comparing  them  with  the  secret  dis- 
quieting circumstancGs  of  his  own,  thinks  him  hap- 


KIHEE    WHITE.  175 

pier;  and  so  it  is,  that,  all  the  world  over,  be  we 
favoured  as  we.may,  there  is  always  something  which 
others  have,  and  which  we  ourselves  have  not,  neces- 
sary to  the  completion  of  our  felicity.  I  think, 
therefore,  upon  the  whole,  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
positive  happiness  in  this  world;  and  a  man  can  only 
be  deemed  felicitous  as  he  is  in  comparision  less 
affected  with  positive  evil.  It  is  our  business,  there- 
fore, to  support  ourselves  under  existing  ills  with  the 
anticipation  of  future  blessings.  Life,  with  all  its 
bitters,  is  a  draught  soon  drunk:  and  though  we  have 
many  changes  on  this  side  the  grave,  beyond  it  we 
know  of  none. 

Your  life  and  mine  are  now  marked  out;  and  our 
calling  is  ef  such  a  nature,  that  it  ill  becomes  us  to 
be  too  much  affected  with  circumstances  of  an  external 
nature.  It  is  our  duty  to  bear  our  evils  with  dignified 
silence.  Considering  our  superior  consolations,  they 
are  small  in  comparison  with  those  of  others  ;  and 
though  they  may  cast  a  sadness  both  over  our  hearts 
and  countenances,  which  time  may  not  easily  remove, 
yet  they  must  not  interfere  with  our  active  duties,  nor 
affect  our  conduct  towards  others,  except  by  opening 
our  hearts  with  warmer  sympathy  to  their  woes,  theif 
wants,  and  miseries. 

FAITH  INDISPENSABLE. 

It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  that  your  la- 
bours have  been  successful  in  the  town  of  *  *  *^ 
where,  1  fear,  much  is  to  be  done.  I  am  o;ie  of  those 
who  think  that  the  love  of  virtue  is  not  sufficient  to 
make  a  virtuous  man;  for  the  love  of  virtue  is  a  mere 
mental  preference  of  the  beautiful  to  the  deformed; 
and  we  see  but  too  often  that  immediate  gratification 


176      "  KIRKK   WHITE. 

outweighs  the  dictates  of  our  judgment.  If  men 
could  always  perform  their  duty  as  well  as  they  can 
discern  it,  or  if  they  would  attend  to  their  real  inte- 
rests as  well  as  they  can  see  them,  there  would  be 
little  occasion  for  moral  instruction.  Sir  Richard 
Steele,  who  wrote  like  a  saint,  and  who,  in  his  Chris- 
tian Hero,  shows  the  strongest  marks  of  a  religious 
and  devout  heart,  lived,  notwithstanding  all  this,  a 
drunkard  and  a  debauchee.  And  what  can  be  tire 
cause  of  this  apparent  contradiction?  Was  it  that  he 
had  not  strength  of  mind  to  act  up  to  his  views.' 
Then  a  man's  salvation  may  depend  on  strength  of 
intellect!  Or  does  not  this  rather  show  that  supe- 
rior motives  are  wanting?  that  assistance  is  yet  ne- 
cessary, when  the  ablest  of  men  has  done  his  utmost? 
If  thert  such  aid  be  necessary,  how  can  it  be  obtained? 
— by  a  virtuous  life? — Surely  not:  because,  to  live 
really  a  virtuous  live  implies  this  aid  to  have  been 
first  given.  We  are  told  in  Scripture  how  it  may  b« 
attained,  namely,  by  humble  trust  in  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  as  our  atoning  sacrifice.  This,  therefore,  is 
the  foundation  of  religious  life,  and,  as  such,  ought  to 
be  the  fundamental  principle  of  religious  instruction 
This  is  the  test  of  our  obedience,  the  indispensable 
preliminary,  before  we  can  enjoy  the  favour  of  God. 
What,  therefore,  can  we  urge  with  more  propriety 
from  the  pulpit  than  faith? — to  preach  morality 
does  not  include  the  principle  of  faith — to  preach 
faith  includes  every  branch  of  morality,  at  the  same 
time  that  it  affords  it  its  present  sanctions  and  its 
strongest  mcitements. 


KISKE  WHITE.  177 

\ 

FORENSIC    ELOQUENCE. 

Had  I  any  certain  expectation  of  hearing  you  ad- 
dress the  Court  or  Jury  sworn  at  Kirton,  no  circum- 
stances should  prevent  me  from  being  present;  so  do 
I  long  to  mark  the  dawnings  of  that  eloquence  which 
will  one  day  ring  through  every  court  in  the  Midland 
Circuit.  I  think  the  noise  of  *  *  *,  the  overbearing 
petulance  of*  *  *,  and  the  decent  assurance  of  *  *  *, 
will  readily  yield  to  that  pure,  chaste,  and  manly 
eloquence,  which,  I  have  no  doubt,  you  chiefly  culti- 
vate. It  seems  to  me,  who  am  certainly  no  very 
competent  judge,  that  there  is  a  uniform  mode,  or  art, 
of  pleading  in  our  courts,  which  is  in  itself  faulty, 
and  is  moreover  a  bar  to  the  higher  excellencies. 
You  know,  before  a  barrister  begins,  in  what  manner 
he  will  treat  the  subject;  you  anticipate  his  positive- 
ness-i  his  complete  confidence  in  the  stability  of  his 
case,  his  contempt  of  his  opponent,  his  voluble  exag- 
geration, and  the  vehemence  of  his  indignation.  All 
these  are  as  of  course.  It  is  no  matter  what  sort  of 
face  the  business  assume:  if  Mr. be  all  impe- 
tuosity, astonishment,  and  indignation,  on  one  side, 
we  know  he  would  not  have  been  a  whit  less  impetu- 
ous, less  astonished,  or  less  indignant,  on  the  other, 
had  he  happened  to  have  been  retained.  It  is  truef 
this  assurance  of  success,  this  contempt  of  an  oppo- 
nent, and  dictatorial  decision  in  speaking,  are  calcu- 
lated to  have  effect  on  the  minds  of  a  juryj  and  if  it 
be  the  business  of  a  counsel  to  obtain  his  ends  by  any 
means,  he  is  right  to  adopt  them;  but  the  misfortune 
is,  that  all  these  things  are  mechanical,  and  as  much 
in  the  power  of  the  opposite  counsel  as  in  your  own- 
so  that  it  is  not  so  much  who  argues   best,  as  who 


178  KIRKE   WHITE. 

speaks  last,  loudest,  and  longest.  True  eloquence, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  confident  only  where  there  ia 
real  ground  for  confidence,  trusts  more  to  reason  and 
facts  than  to  imposing  declamation,  and  seeks  rather 
to  convince  than  dazzle.  The  obstreperous  rant  of  a 
pleader  may,  for  a  while,  intimidate  a  jury;  but  plain 
and  manly  argument,  delivered  in  a  candid  and  inge- 
nuous manner,  will  more  efi'ectually  work  upon  their 
understandings,  and  will  make  an  impression  on  which 
the  froth  of  declamation  will  be  lost.  I  think  a  man 
who  would  plead  in  this  manner,  would  gain  the  con- 
fidence of  a  jury,  and  would  find  the  avenues  of  their 
hearts  much  more  open,  than  a  man  of  more  assu- 
rance, who,  by  too  much  confidence,  where  there  is 
much  doubt,' and  too  much  vehemence,  where  there  is 
greater  need  of  coolness,  puts  his  hearers  continually 
in  mind  that  he  is  pleading  for  hire.  There  seems  to 
me  so  much  beauty  in  truth,  that  I  could  wish  our 
barristers  would  make  a  distinction  between  cases,  ia 
their  opinion  well  or  ill-founded,  embarking  their 
whole  heart  and  soul  in  the  one,  and  contenting  them- 
selves with  a  perspicuous  and  forcible  statement  of 
their  client's  case  in  the  other 

FRIEND    HtTNTERS. 

The  world  has  often  heard  of  fortune-hunters,  le- 
gacy-hunters, popularity-hunters,  and  hunters  of  va- 
rious descriptions — one  diversity,  however,  of  this  very 
exteilsive  species  has  hitherto  eluded  public  animad- 
version; I  allude  to  the  class  of  friend-hunters — men 
who  nijake  it  the  business  of  their  lives  to  acquire 
friends,  in  the  hope,  through  their  influence,  to  arrive 
at  some  desirable  point  of  ambitious  eminence.  Of 
all  the  mortifications  and  anxieties  to  which  mankind 


KIRKE     WillTK,  *  IT(I 

voluntarily  subject  themselves  from  the  expectation 
of  future  benefit,  there  are,  perhaps,  none  more  gall- 
ing, none  more  insupportable,  than  those  attendant  on 
friend-making.  Show  a  man  that  you  court  his  so- 
ciety, and  it  is  a  signal  for  him  to  treat  you  with 
neglect  and  contumely;  humour  his  passions,  and 
he  despises  you  as  a  sycophant;  pay  implicit  defer- 
ence to  his  opinions,  and  he  laughs  at  you  for  your 
folly:  in  all,  he  views  you  with  contempt,  as  the 
creature  of  his  will,  and  the  slave  of  his  caprice 
I  remember  I  once  solicited  the  acquaintance  and. co- 
veted the  friendship  of  one  man,  and,  thank  God,  I 
can  yet  say  (and  I  hope  on  my  deathbed  I  shall  be 
able  to  say  the  same)  of  only  one  man. 

Germanicus  was  a  character  of  considerable  emi- 
nence in  the  literary  world.  He  had  the  reputation 
not  only  of  an  enlightened  understanding  and  refined 
taste,  but  of  openness  of  heart  and  goodness  of  dispo- 
sition. His  name  always  carried  with  it  that  weight 
and  authority  which  are  due  to  learning  and  genius 
in  every  situation.  His  manners  were  fiolished,  and 
his  conversation  elegant.  In  short,  he  possessed 
every  qualification  which  could  render  him  an  envia- 
ble addition  to  the  circle  of  every  man's  friends. 
With  such  a  character,  as  I  was  then  very  young,  I 
could  not  fail  to  feel  an  ambition  of  becoming  ac- 
quainted, when  the  opportunity  offered,  and  in  a  short 
time  we  wete  upon  terms  of  familiarity.  To  riper 
this  familiarity  into  friendship,  as  far  as  the  most  ' 
awkward  diffidence  would  permit,  was  my  strenuous 
endeavour.  If  his  opinions  contradicted  mine,  I  imme- 
diately, without  reasoning  on  the  subject,  conceded 
the  point  to  him,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  he  must 
be  right,  and  by  consequence  that  I  must  be  wronjj 


180  KIRKE    WHITE. 

Did  he  utter  a  witticism,  I  was  sure  to  laugh;  and 
ff  he  looked  grave,  though  nobody  could  tell  why,  it 
was  mine  to  groan.  By  thus  conforming  myself  to 
his  humour,  I  flattered  myself  I  was  making  some 
progress  in  his  good  graces,  but  I  was  soon  unde- 
ceived. A  man  seldom  cares  much  for  that  which 
costs  him  no  pains  to  procure.  Whether  Germanicus 
found  me  a  troublesome  visiter,  or  whether  he  was 
really  displeased  with  something  I  had  unwittingly 
said  or  done,  certain  it  is,  that  when  I  met  him  one 
day,  in  company  with  persons  of  apparent  figure,  he 
had  lost  all  recollection  of  my  features.  I  called  upon 
him,  but  Germanicus  was  not  at  home.  Again  and 
again  I  gave  a  hesitating  knock  at  the  great  man's 
door.  All  was  to  no  purpose — he  was  still  not  at 
home.  The  sly  meaning,  however,  which  was 
couched  in  the  sneer  of  the  servant  the  last  time  that, 
half  ashamed  of  my  errand,  I  made  my  enquiries  at 
his  house,  convinced  me  of  what  I  ought  to  have 
known  before,  that  Germanicus  «as  at  home  to  all 
the  world  save  me.  I  believe,  with  all  my  seeming 
humility,  I  am  a  confounded  proud  fellow  at  bottom; 
my  rage  at  this  discovery,  therefore,  may  be  better 
conceived  than  described.  Ten  thousand  curses  did 
I  imprecate  on  the  foolish  vanity  which  led  me  to  soli- 
cit the  friendship  of  my  superiors,  and  again  and  again 
did  I  vow  down  eternal  vengeance  on  my  head,  if  I 
ever  more  condescended  thtis  to  court  the  acquaint- 
ance of  man.  To  this  resolution  I  believe  I  shall  ever 
adhere.  -If  I  am  destined  to  make  any  progress  in  the 
world,  if  will  be  by  my  own  individual  exertions. 
As  I  elbow  my  way  through  the  crowded  vale  of  life, 
I  will  never,  in  any  emergency,  call  on  my  selfish 
neighbour  for  assistance.     If  my  strength  give  way 


KIHKE    WHITJE.  181 

beneath  the  pressure  of  calamity,  I  shall  sink  without 
his  whine  of  hypocritical  condolence;  and  if  I  do 
sink,  let  him  kick  me  into  a  ditch,  and  go  about  his 
business.  I  asked  not  his  assistaihce  while  living,  it 
will  be  of  no  service  to  me  when  dead. 

Believe  me,  reader,  whoever  thou  mayest  be,  there 
are  few  among  mortals,  whose  friendship,  when  ac- 
quired, will  repay  thee  for  the  meanness  of  solicita- 
tion. If  a  man  voluntarily  holds  out  his  hand  to 
thee,  take  it  with  caution.  If  thou  find  him  honest, 
be  not  backward  to  receive  his  proffered  assistance, 
and  be  anxious,  when  occasion  shall  require,  to  yield 
to  him  thine  own.  A  real  friend  is  the  most  valuable 
blessing  a  man  can  possess,  and,  mark  me,  it  is  by 
far  the  most  rare.  It  is  a  black  swan.  But,  what- 
ever thou  mayest  do,  solicit  not  friendship.  If  thou 
art  young,  and  wouldst  make  thy  way  in  the  world, 
bind  thyself  a  seven  years'  apprentice  to  a  city  tal- 
low-chandler, and  thou  mayest  in  time  come  to  be 
lord  mayor.  Many  people  have  made  their  fortunes 
at  a  tailor's  board.  Periwig-makers  have  been  known 
to  buy  their  country-seats,  and  bellows-menders  have 
started  their  curricles;  but  seldom,  very  seldom,  has 
the  man  who  placed  his  dependence  on  the  friendship 
of  his  fellow-men  arrived  at  even  the  shadow  of  the 
honours  to  which,  through  that  medium,  he  aspired. 
Nay,  even  if  thou  shouldst  find  a  friend  ready  to  lend 
thee  a  helping  hand,  the  moment,  by  his  assistance, 
thou  hast  gained  some  little  eminence,  he  will  be  the 
first  to  hurl  thee  down  to  thy  primitive,  and  now,  per- 
haps, irremediable  obscurity. 

Yet  I  see  no  more  reason  for  complaint  on  the  ground 
of  the  fallacy  of  human^riendship,  than  I  db  for  any 
other  ordinance  of  nature,  which  may  appear  to  run 
16 


1S2  KIRKE    WHITE. 

counter  to  our  happiness.  Man  is  naturally  a  selfish 
creature,  and  it  is  only  by  the  aid  of  philosophy  that 
he  can  so  far  conquer  the  defects  of  his  being,  as  to  be 
capable  of  disinterested  friendship.  Who,  then,  can 
expect  to  find  that  benign  disposition,  which  manifests 
itself  in  acts  of  disinterested  benevolence  and  sponta- 
neous affection,  a  common  visiter.'  Who  can  preach 
philosophy  to  the  mob.' 

The  recluse,  who  does  not  easily  assimilate  with  the 
herd  of  rnankind,  and  whose  manners  with  difficulty 
bend  to  the  peculiarities  of  others,  is  not  likely  to  have 
many  real  friends.  His  enjoyments,  therefore,  must 
be  solitary,  lone,  and  melancholy.  His  only  friend  is 
himself.  As  he  sits  immersed  in  reverie  by  his  mid- 
night fiii^e,  and  hears  without  the  wild  gusts  of  wind 
fitfully  careering  over  the  plain,  he  listens  sadly  atten- 
tive; and  as  the  varied  intonations  of  the  howling 
blast  articulate  to  his  enthusiastic  ear,  be  converses 
with  the  spirits  of  the  departed,  while,  between  each 
dreary  pause  of  the  storm,  he  holds  solitary  com- 
munion with  himself  Such  is  the  social  intercourse 
of  the  recluse  ;  yet  he  frequently  feelsthe  soft  consola- 
t|pns  of  friendship.  A  heart  formed  for  the  gentler 
emotions  of  the  soul  often  feels  as  strong  an  interest 
for  what  are  called  brutes,  as  most  bipeds  affect  to 
feel  for  each  other.  Montaigne  had  his  cat;  I  have 
read  of  a  man  whose  only  friend  was  a  large  spider; 
and  Trenck,  in  his  dungeon,  would  sooner  have  lost  his 
right  hand  than  the  poor  little  mouse,  which,  grown 
confident  with  indulgence,  used  to  beguile  the  tedious 
hours  of  imprisonment  with  its  gai^nbols.  For  my  own 
part,  I  believe  my  dog,  who,  at  this  moment,  seated 
on  his  hinder  legs,  is  wistfully  surveying  me,  as  if  he 
was  conscious  of  all  that  is  passing  in  my  mind, — my 


KIRKE     WHITE.  183 

dog,  I  say,  is  as  sincere,  and,  whatever  the  world  may 
say,  nearly  as  dear  a  friend  as  any  I  possess;  and, 
when  I  shall  receive  that  summons  which  may  not 
now  be  far  distant,  he  will  whine  a  funeral  requiem 
over  my  grave  more  piteously  than  all  the  hired 
mourners  in  Christendom.  Well,  well,  poor  Bob  has 
had  a  kind  master  of  me,  and,  for  my  own  part;  I 
verily  believe  there  are  kw  things  on  this  earth  I  shall 
leave  with  more  regret  than  this  faithful  companion  of 
the  happy  hours  of  my  infancy. 


This  place  is  literally  a  den  of  thieves:  my  bed- 
makei',  whom  we  call  a  gyp,  from  a  Greek  word  signi- 
fying a  vulture,  runs  away  with  every  thing  he  can  lay 
his  hands  on,  and,  when  he  is  caught,  says  he  only 
borrows  them.  He  stole  a  sack  of  coals  a-week,  as 
regularly  as  the  week  came,  when  first  I  had  fires; 
but  1  have  stopped  the  run  of  this  business,  by  a 
monstrous  large  padlock,  which  is  hung  to  the  staple 
of  the  bin.  His  next  trick  was  to  bring  me  four  can- 
dles for  a  pound,  instead  of  six:  and  this  trade  h,e  car- 
ried on  for  some  time,  until  1  accidentally  discovered 
the  trick:  he  then  said  he  had  always  brought  me 
right  until  that  time,  and  that  then  he  had  brought  me 
Jives,  but  had  given  Mr.  H.  (a  man  on  the  same  stair- 
case) one,  because  he  thought  he  understood  I  had 
borrowed  one  of  him:  on  inquiring  of  Mr.  H.  he  had 
not  given  him  one  according  to  his  pretence:  but  the 
gentleman  was  not  caught  yet,  for  he  declared  he  had 
lent  one  to  the  bed-maker  of  Lord  B.  in  the  rooms 
below.  His  neatest  trick  is  going  to  the  grocer  every 
norw  and  then  for  articles  in  your  name,  which  he  con- 


184  KIRKE  WHITE. 

yerts  to  his  own  use.  I  have  stopped  him  here,  too, 
by  keeping  a  check-book.  Tea,  sugar,  and  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  are  his  natural  perquisites,  and  I  verily 
believe  he  will  soon  be  filling  his  canister  out  of  mine 
before  my  face.  There  is  no  redress  for  all  this;  for 
if  you  change,  you  are  no  better  off:  they  are  all  alike. 
They  know  you  regard  them  as  a  pack  of  thieves,  and 
their  only  concern  is  to  steal  so  dexterously  that  they 
may  not  be  confronted  with  direct  proof. 

THE  happiest'  STATE. 

It  is  a  remark  of  an  ancient  philosophical  poet 
(Horace,)  that  every  man  thinks  his  neighbour's  con- 
dition happier  than  his  own;  and,  indeed,  common 
experience  shows  that  we  are  too  apt  to  entertain  ro- 
mantic notions  of  absent,  and  to  think  meanly  of  pre- 
sent things ;  to  extol  what  we  have  had  no  experience 
of,  and  to  be  discontented  with  what  we  possess.  The 
man  of  business  sighs  for  the  sweets  of  leisure:  the 
person,  who,  with  a  taste  for  reading,  has  few  oppor- 
tunities for  it,  tliinks  that  man's  liffe  the  sum  of  bliss 
who  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  study.  Yet  it  often  hap- 
pens that  the  condition  of  the  envier  is  happier  than 
that  of  the  envied.  You  have  read  Dr.  Johnson's  tale 
of  the  poor  Tallow-Chandler,  who,  after  sighing  for 
the  quiet  of  country  life,  at  length  scraped  money 
enough  to  retire,  but  found  his  long-sought-for  leisure 
so  insupportable,  that  he  made  a  voluntary  offer  to  his 
successor  to  come  up  to  town  every  Friday,  and  melt 
tallow  for  him  gratis.  It  would  be  so  with  half  of  the 
men  of  business  who  sigh  so  earnestly  for  the  sweets 
of  retirement ;  and  you  may  receive  it  as  one  of  the 
maturest  observations  I  iiave  been  able  to  make  on 


KIRKE    WHITE.  185 

human  life,  that  there  is  no  condition  so  happy  as  that 
of  him  who  leads  a  life  of  full  and  constant  employ- 
ment. His  amusements  have  a  zest  which  men  of 
'  pleasure  would  gladly  undergo  all  his  drudgery  to  ex- 
perience; and  the  regular  succession  of  business,  pro- 
vided his  situation  be  not  too  anxious,  drives  away 
from  his  brain  those  harassing  speculations  which  are 
continually  assaulting  the  man  of  leisure  and  the  man 
or  reading.  The  studious  man,  though  his  pleasures 
are  of  the  most  refined  species,  finds  cares  and  disturb- 
ing thoughts  in  study.  To  think  much  and  deeply 
will  soon  make  a  man  sad.  His  thoughts,  ever  on  the 
wing,  often  carry  him  where  he  shudders  to  be  even 
in  imagination.  Ho  is  like  a  man  ever  in  sleep-! — some- 
times his  dreams  are  pleasing,  but  at  others,  horror  it- 
self takes  possession  of  his' imagination:  and  this  ine- 
quality of  mind  is  almost  inseparable  from  much  me- 
ditation and  mental  exercise.  From  this  cause  it  often 
happens,  that  lettered  and  philosophical  men  are 
peevish  in  their  tempers,  and  austere  in  their  manners. 
The  inference  I  would  draw  from  these  remarks  is 
generally  this,  that  although  every  man  carries  about 
him  the  seeds  of  happiness  or  misery  in  his  own  bosom, 
yet  it  is  a  truth  not  liable  to  matiy  exceptions,  that 
men  are  more  equally  free  from  anxiety  and  care,  in 
proportion  as  they  recede  from  the  more  refined  and 
mental  to  thq  grosser  and  bodily  employments  and 
modes  of  life,  but  that  the  happiest  condition  is  placed 
in  the  middle,  between  the  extremes  of  both.  Thus  a 
person  with  a  moderate  love  of  reading,  and  few  op- 
portunies  of  indulging  it,  would  be  inclined  to  envy 
one  in  my  situation,  because  such  a  one  has  nothing  to 
do  but  to  read:  but  I  could  tell  him,  that  though  my 
studious  pleasures  are  more  comprehensive  than  hia, 
16* 


1S6  KIRKE      WHITE. 

they  are  not  more  exquisite,  and  that  an  occasional 
banquet  gives  more  delight  than  a  continual  feast 
Reading  should  be  dearer  to  you  than  to  me,  because 
I  always  read,  and  you  but  seldom. 

HEROIC  ATTACHMEWT. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  the  opinion  of  a  young  man,  but 
I  think  the  old  system  of  heroic  attachment,  with 
all  its  attendant  notions  of  honor  and  spotlessness, 
was,  in  the  end,|Calculated  to  promote  the  interests  of 
the  human  race;  for  though  it  produced  a  temporary 
alienation  of  mind,  perhaps  bordering  on  insanity,  yet, 
with  the  very  extravagance  and  madness  of  the  senti- 
ments, there  were  inwoven  certain  imperious  prin- 
ciples of  virtue  and  generosity,  which  would  probably 
remain  after  time  had  evaporated  the  heat  of  passion, 
and  sobered  the  luxuriance  of  a  romantic  imagination. 
I  think,  therefore,  the  man  of  song  is  rendering  the 
community  a  service  when  he  displays  the  ardour  of 
manly  affection  in  a  pleasing  light;  but  certainly  we 
need  no  incentives  to  the  irregular  gratification  of  our 
appetites;  and  I  should  think  it  a  proper  punishment 
for  the  poet,  who  holds  forth  the  allurements  of  illicit 
pleasures  in  amiable  and  seductive  colours,  should  his 
wife,  his  sister,  or  his  child,  fall  a  victim  to  the  licen- 
tiousness he  has  been  instrumental  in  difiusing. 

THE   PROGRESS  OF   KNOWLEDGH. 

Few  histories  would  be  more  worthy  of  attention 
than  that  of  the  progress  of  knowledge,  from  its  first 
dawn  to  the  time  of  its  meridian  splendor,  among  the 
ancient  Greeks.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  precau- 
tionji  which,  in  this  early  period,  were  almost  ge- 
rerally  taken  to  confine  all  knowledge  to  a  particular 


KiaKE   WHITE.  187 

branch  of  men,  and  when  the  Greeks  began  to  contend 
for  the  palm  among  the  learned  nations,  their  back- 
wardness to  acknowledge  the  sources  from  whence 
they  derived  the  first  principles  of  their  philosophy 
have  served  to  wrap  this  interesting  subject  in  almost 
impenetrable  obscurity.  Few  ^vestiges,  except  the 
Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  now  remain  of  the  learning 
of  the  more  ancient  world.  Of  the  two  millions  of 
verses  said  to  have  been  written  by  the  Chaldean 
Zoroaster*,  we  have  no  relics:  and  the  oracles  which 
go  under  his  name  are  pretty  generally  acknowledged 
to  be  spurious. 

The  Greeks  unquestionably  derived  their  philoso- 
phy from  the  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans.  Both  Pytha- 
goras and  Plato  had  visited  those  countries  for  the 
advantage  of  learning;  and  if  we  may  credit  the  re- 
ceived accounts  of  the  former  of  these  illustrious  sages, 
he  was  regularly  initiated  in  the  schools  of  Egypt, 
during  the  period  of ,  twenty-two  years  that  he  resided 
in  that  country,  and  became  the  envy  and  admiration 
of  the  Egyptians  themselves.  Of  the  Pythagorean 
doctrines  we  have  some  accounts  remaining;  and 
nothing  is  wanting  to  render  the  systems  of  Platonism 
complete  and  intelligible.  In  the  dogmas  of  those 
philosophers,  therefore,  we  may  be  able  to  trace  the 
learning  of  these  primitive  nations,  though  our  con- 
clusions must  be  cautiously  drawn,  and  much  must 
be  allowed  to  the  active  intelligence  of  two  Greeks. 
Ovid's  short  summary  of  the  philosophy  of  Pytha- 
goras deserves  attention: 

Isque,  licet  coeli  regione  remotos 

Mente  Deos  adiit,  et,  quae  natura  negabat 

*  Pliny. 


188  Kirtxn  white. 

Visibus  humanus,  oculis  ea  pectoris  hausit. 

Cumque  animo,  et  vigili  perspexerat  omnia  cura; 

In  medium  discenda  dabat:  coetumque  silentum, 

Dictaque  mirantum,  magni  primordia  mundi 

Et  rerum  causas,  et  quid  natura,  docebat. 

Quid  Deus:  unde  nives:  quas  fulminis  esset  origo: 

Jupiter,  an  venti,  discussa  nube,  tonarent: 

Quid  quateret  terras:  qua  sidera  lege  mearent: 

Et  quodcumque  latet.  ' 

If  we  are  to  credit  this  account,  and  it  is  corro- 
borated by  many  other  testimonies,  Pythagoras 
searched  deeply  into  natural  causes.  Some  have 
imagined,  and  strongly  asserted,  that  his  central  fire 
was  figurative  of  the  sun,  and  therefore  that  he  had 
an  idea  of  its  real  situation;  but  this  opinion,  so 
generally  adopted,  may  be  combated  with  some  degree 
of  reason.  I  should  be  inclined  to  think  Pythagoras 
gained  his  idea  of  the  great  central,  vivifying,  and  crea- 
tive fire  from  the  Chaldeans,  and  that,  therefore,  it  was 
the  representative,  not  of  the  sun  but  of  the  Deity. 
Zoroaster  taught  that  there  was  one  God,  Eternal,  the 
Father  of  the  Universe;  he  assimilated  ^he  Deity  to 
light,  and  applied  to  him  the  names  of  Light,  Beams, 
and  Splendour.  The  Magi,  corrupting  his  repre- 
sentation of  the  Supreme  Being,  and,  taking  literally 
w^at  was  meant  as  an  allegory  or  symbol,  supposed 
that  God  was  this  central  fire,  the  source  of  beat, 
light,  and  life,  residing  in  the  centre  of  the  universe; 
and  from  hence  they  introduced  among  the  Chaldeans 
the  worship  of  fire.  That  Pythagoras  was  tainted 
with  this  superstition  is  well  known.  On  the  testi- 
mony of  Plutarch,  his  disciples  held,  that  in  the 
nudst  of  the  four  elements  is  the  fiery  globe  of  Unity, 


K.IRKK    WHITE.  189 

or  Monad — the  procreative,  nutritive,  and  excitive 
power.  The  sacred  fire  of  Vesta,  among  the  Greeks 
and  Latins,  was  a  remain  of  this  doctrine. 

As  the  limits  of  this  paper  will  not  allow  me  to 
take  in  all  the  branches  of  this  subject,  I  shall  confine 
my  attention  to  the  opinions  held  by  these  early  na- 
tions of  the  nature  of  the  Godhead. 

Amidst  the  corruptions  introduced  by  the  Magi 
we  may  discern, with  tolerable  certainty,  that  Zoroastei 
taught  the  worship  of  the  one  true  God;  and  Thales, 
Pythagoras,  and  Plato,  who  had  all  been  initiated 
in  the  mysteries  of  the  Chaldeans,  taught  the  same 
doctrine.  These  philosophers  likewise  asserted  the 
omnipotence  and  eternity  of  God;  and  that  he  was 
the  creator  of  all  things,  and  the  governor  of  the  uni- 
verse. Plato  decisively  supported  the  doctrines  of 
future  rewards  and  punishments;  and  Pythagoras, 
struck  with  the  idea  of  the  omnipresence  of  the  Deity, 
defined  him  as  animus  per  universas  mwndi  partes 
omnemque  naturam  commeans  atque  diffusus,  ex 
quo  omnia  quanascuntur  animalia  vitam  capiunt.* — 
An  intelligence  moving  upon,  and  diffused  over,  all 
parts  of  the  universe  and  all  nature,  from  which  all 
animals  derive  their  existence.  As  for  the  swarm  of 
gods  worshipped  both  in  Egypt  and  Greece,  it  is  evi 
dent  they  were  only  esteemed  as  inferior  deities.  In 
the  time  of  St.  Paul,  there  was  a  temple  at  Athens' 
inscribed  to  the  unknown  god:  and  Hesiod  makes 
them  younger  than  the  earth  and  heaven. 

*  Lactantius  Div.  Inst.  lib.  cap.  5,  etiam  Minu 
cms  Felix,  "  Pythagone  Deus  est  animus  per  univer- 
sam  rerum  naturam  commeans  atque  intentus,  ex  quo 
etiam  animalium  omnium  vita  capiatur," 


190  KIRKE   WHITE. 

E^ttf^xt  oil!  TsUA  Kcu  OvfiA-vo;  wpus  trotrof 

Oi  T*  tK  Toty  ry&ovro  Bici  i'otriift;  tteev.  Theog. 

If  Pythagoras,  and  the  other  philosophers  who  suc- 
ceeded him,  paid  honor  to  these  gods,  they  either 
did  it  through  fear  of  encountering  ancient  prejudices, 
or  they  reconciled  it  by  recurring  to  the  Demonology 
of  their  masters,  the  Chaldeans,  who  maintained  the 
agency  of  good  and  bad  demons,  who  presided  over 
diflerent  things,  and  were  distinguished  into  the 
powers  of  light  and  darkness,  heat  and  cold.  It  is  re- 
markable, too,  that  amongst  all  these  people,  whether 
Egyptians  or  Chaldeans,  Greeks  or  Romans,  as  well 
as  every  other  nation  under  the  sun,  sacrifices  were 
made  to  the  gods,  in  order  to  render  them  propitious 
to  their  wishes,  or  to  expiate  their  offences — a  fact 
which  proves  that  the  conviction  of  the  interference 
of  the  Deity  in  human  affairs  is  universal;  and, 
what  is  much  more  important,  that  this  custom  is 
primitive,  and  derived  from  the  first  inhabitants  of  the 
world. 

A  LANDSCAPE    SKETCH. 

My  days  flow  on  here  in  an  even  tenor.  They  are, 
indeed,  studious  days,  for  my  studies  seem  to' multi- 
ply en  my  hand.s,  and  I  am  so  much  occupied  with 
them,  that  I  am  becoming  a  mere  book-worm,  run- 
ning over  the  rules  of  Greek  versification  in  my 
walks,  instead  of  expatiating  on  the  beauties  of  the 
surrounding  scenery,  Winteringham  is,  indeed,  now 
a  delightful  place:  the  trees  are  in  full  verdure,  the 
crops  are  browning  'he  fields,  and  my  former  walks 
are  becoming  dry  under  foot,  which  I  have  never 
known  them  to  be  before.  The  opening  vista,  from 
our  churchyard,  over  the  Humber,  to  the  hills  and 


KrnKE    WHITE.  191 

receding  vales  of  Yorkshire,  assumes  a  thousand  new 
aspects.  I  sometimes  watch  it  at  evening,  when  the 
sun  is  just  gilding  the  summits  of  the  hills,  and  the 
lowlands  are  beginning  to  take  a  browner  hue.  The 
showers  partially  falling  in  the  distance,  while  all 
is  serene  above  me;  the  swelling  sail  rapidly  falling 
down  the  river;  and,  not  least  of  all,  the  villages, 
woods,  and  villas,  on  the  opposite  bank,  sometimes 
render  this  scene  quite  enchanting  to  me;  and  it  is 
no  contemptible  relaxation,  after  a  man  has  been 
puzzling  his  brains  over  the  intricacies  of  Greek 
choruses  all  the  day,  to  come  out  and  unbend  his 
mind  with  careless  thought  and  negligent  fancies, 
while  he  refreshes  his  body  with  the  fresh  air  of  the 
country. 

THE  DELUSIONS  OF  LIFE. 

If  the  situation  of  man,  in  the  present  life,  be  con- 
sidered in  all  its  relations  and  depenjlencies,  a,  striking 
inconsistency  will  be  apparent  to  a  Very  cursory 
observer.  We  "have  sure  warrant  for  believing  that 
our  abode  here  is  to  form  a  comparatively  insignificant 
part  of  our  existence,  and  that  on  our  conduct  in  this 
life  will  depend  the  happiness  of  the  life"  to  come;  yet 
our  actions  daily  give  the  lie  to  this  proposition, 
inasmuch  as  we  commonly  act  like  men  who  haye  no 
thought  but  for  the  present  scene,  and  to  whom  the 
grave  is  the  boundary  of  anticipation.  But  this  is  not 
the  only  paradox  which  humanity  furnishes  to  the  eye 
of  a  thinking  man.  It  is  very  generally  the  case, 
that  we  spend  our  whole  lives  in  the  pursuit  of 
objects  which  common  experience  informs  us  are  not 
capable  of  conferring  that  pleasure  and  satisfaction 


192  KIRKE    WHITE. 

which  we  expect  from  their  enjoyment.  Our  views 
are  uniformlj  directed  to  one  point: — happiness,  in 
whatever  garb  it  be  clad,  and  under  whatever  figure 
shadowed,  is  the  great  aim  of  the  busy  multitudes, 
whom  we  behold  toiling  through  the  vale  of  life,  in 
such  an  infinite  diversity  of  occupation  and  disparity 
of  views.  But  the  misfortune  is,  that  we  seek  for 
happiness  where  she  is  not  to  be  found,  and  the  cause 
of  wonder,  that  the  experience  of  ages  should  not 
have  guarded  us  against  so  fatal  and  universal  an 
error. 

It  would  be  an  amusing  speculation  to  consider  the 
various  points  after  which  our  fellow-mortals  are  in- 
cessantly straining,  and  in  the  possession  of  which 
they  have  placed  that  imaginary  chief  good  which  we 
are  all  doomed  to  covet,  but  which,  perhaps,  none  of 
us,  in  this  sublunary  state,  can  attain.  At  present, 
however,  we  are  led  to  considerations  of  a  more  im- 
portant nature.  We  turn  from  the  inconsistencies 
observable  in  the  prosecution  of  our  subordinate  pur- 
suits, from  the  partial  follies  of  individuals,  to  the 
general  delusion  which  seems  to  envelope  the  whole 
human  race: — the  delusion  under  whose  influence 
they  lose  sight  of  the  chief  end  of  their  being,' and  cut 
down  the  sphere  of  their  hopes  and  enjoyments  to  a 
few  rolling  years,  and  that,  too,  in  a  scene  where  they 
know  there  is  neither  perfect  fruition  nor  permanent 
delight. 

The  faculty  t»f  contemplating  mankind  in  the 
abstract,  apart  from  those  prepossessions  which,  both 
by  nature  and  the  power  of  habitual  associations, 
would  intervene  to  cloud  our  view,  is  only  to  be 
obtained  by  a  life  of  virtue  and  constant  meditation, 
by  temperance,  and  purity  of  thought.  .  Whenever  it 


KIRRE   WHITE.  193 

is  attained,  it  must  greatly  tend  to  correct  our  motives 
— to  simplify  our  desires — and  to  excite  a  spirit  of 
contentment  and  pious  resignation.  We  then,  at 
length,  are  enabled  to  contemplate  our  being,  in  all 
its  bearings,  and  in  its  full  extent,  and  the  result  is, 
that  superiority  to  common  views  and  indifference  to 
the  things  of  this  life,  which  should  be  the  fruit  of 
all  true  philosophy,  and  which,  therefore,  are  the 
more  peculiar  fruits  of  that  system  of  philosophy 
which  is  called  the  Christian. 

To  a  mind  thus  sublimed,  the  great  mass  of  man- 
kind will  appear  like  men  led  astray  by  the  workings 
of  wild  and  distempered  imaginations — visionaries 
who  are  wandering  after  the  phantoms  of  their  own 
teeming  brains;  and  th^ir  anxious  solicitude  for  mere 
matters  of  wordly  accomipodation  and  ease  will  seem 
more  like  the  effects  of  insanity  than  of  prudent  fore- 
sight, as  they  are  esteemed.  To  the  awful  importance 
of  futurity  he  will  observe  them  utterly  insensible; 
and  he  will  see  with  astonishment  the  few  allotted 
years  of  human  life  wasted  in  providing  abundance 
they  will  never  enjoy,  while  the  eternity  they  are 
placed  here  to  prepare  for,  scarcely  employs  a  mo- 
ment's consideration.  And  yet  the  mass  of  these 
poor  wanderers  in  the  ways  of  error  have  the  light  of 
truth  shining  on  their  very  foreheads.  They  have 
the  revelation  of  Almighty  God  himself,  to,  declare  to 
them  the  folly  of  worldly  cares,  and  the  necessity  of 
providing  for  a  future  state  of  existence.  They  know, 
by  the  experience  of  every  preceding  generation,  that 
a  very  small  portion  of  joy  is  allowed  to  the  poor  so- 
journers in  this  vale  of  tears,  and  that,  too,  embittered 
with  much  pain  and  fear ;  and  yet  every  one  is  willing 
to  flatter  himself  that  he  shall  fare  better  than  his 
17 


194  KIRKE  WHITE. 

predecessor  in  the  same  path, 'and  that  liappiaess  wiJl 
smile  on  him  which  hath  frowned  on  all  hia  pro- 
genitors. 

Still  it  would  be  wrong  to  deny  the  human  race  all 
claim  to  temporal  felicity.  There  may  be  comparative, 
although  very  little  positive  happiness; — whoever  is 
more  exempt  from  the  cares  of  the  world  and  the  cala- 
mities incident  to  humanity — whoever  enjoys  more 
contentment  of  mind,  and  is  more  resigned  to  the  dis- 
pensations of  Divine  Providence — in  a  word,  whoever 
possesses  more  of  the  true  spirit  of  Christianity  than 
his  neighbours,  is  comparatively  happy.  But  the 
number  of  these,  it  is  to  be  feared,  is  very  small. 
Were  all  men  equally  enlightened  by  the  illuminations 
of  truth,  as  emanating  from  the  spirit  of  Jehovah  him- 
self, they  would  all  concur  in  the  pursuit  of  virtuous 
ends  by  virtuous  means: — as  there  would  be  no  vice, 
there  would  be  very  little  infelicity.  Every  pain  would 
be  met  with  fortitude,  every  afiliction  with  resignation. 
We  should  then  all  look  back  to  the  past  with  com- 
placency, and  to  the  future  with  hope.  Even  this  un- 
stable state  of  being  would  have  many  exquisite  enjoy- 
ments— the  principal  of  which  would  be  the  anticipa- 
tion of  that  approaching  state  of  beatitude  to  which  we 
might  then  look  with  confidence,  through  the  medium 
of  that  atonement  of  which  we  should  be  partakers,  and 
our  acceptance,  by  virtue  of  which,  would  be  sealed  by 
that  purity  of  mind  of  which  human  nature  is,  of  it- 
self, incapable.  But  it  is  from  the  mistakes  and  mis- 
calculations of  manKmd,  to  which  their  fallen  natures 
are  continually  prone,  that  arises  that  flood  of  misery 
which  overwhelms  the  whole  race,  eind  resounds  where- 
ever  the  footsteps  of  man  have  penetrated.  It  is  the 
lamentable  error  of  placing  happiness  in  vicious  in- 


KIRKE    WHITE.  195 

dulgences,  or  thinking  to  pursue  it  by  vicious  means. 
It  is  the  blind  folly  of  sacrificing  the  welfare  of  the 
future  to  the  opportunity  of  inunediate  guilty  gratifi- 
cation which  destroys  the  harmony  of  society,  and 
poisons  the  peace,  not  only  of  the  immediate  pro- 
creators  of  the  errors — not  only  of  the  identical  actors 
of  the  vices  themselves,  but  of  all  those  of  their 
fellows  who  fall  within  the  reach  of  their  influence  or 
example,  or  who  are  in  any  wise  connected  with  them 
by  the  ties  of  blood.  ' 

I  would  therefore  exhort  you  earnestly — you  who 
are  yet  unskilled  in  the  ways  of  the  world — to  beware 
on  what  object  you  concentre  your  hopes.  Pleasures 
may-  allure — pride  or  ambition  may  stimulate,  but 
their  fruits  are  hollow  and  deceitful,  and  they  afford  no 
sure,  no  solid  satisfaction.  You  are  placed  on  the 
earth  in  a  state  of  probation — your  continuance  here 
will  be,  at  the  longest,  a  very  short  period,  and  when 
you  are  called  from  hence  you  plunge  into  an  eternity, 
the  completion  of  which  will  be  in  correspondence  to 
your  past  life,imutterably  happy  or  inconceivably  mi- 
serable. Your  fate  will  probably  depend  on  your  early 
pursuits — it  will  be  these  which  will  give  the  turn  to 
your  character  and  to  your  pleasures.  I  beseech  yon, 
therefore,  with  a  meek  and  lowly  spirit,  to  read  the 
pages  of  that  Book,  which  the  wisest  and  best  of  men 
have  acknowledged  to  be  the  word  of  God.  You  will 
there  find  a  rule  of  moral  conduct,  such  as  the  world 
never  had  any  idea  of  before  its  divulgation.  If  you 
covet  earthly  happiness,  it  is  only  to  be  found  in  the 
path  you  will  find  there  laid  down,  and  I  can  confi 
dently  promise  you,  in  a  life  of  simplicity  and  purity, 
a  life  passed  in  accordance  with  the  Divine  word, 
Buch  substantial  bliss,  such  unruffled  peace,  as  is  no- 


106  KIRKE  WHITE. 

where  else  to  be  found.  All  other  schemes  of  earthly 
pleasure  are  fleeting  and  unsatisfactory.  They  all 
entail  upon  them  repentance  and  bitterness  of  thought. 
This  alone  endureth  for  ever — this  alone  embraces 
equally  the  present  and  the  future — this  alone  can 
arm  a  man  against  every  calamity — can  alone  shed 
the  balm  of  peace  over  that  scene  of  life  when  plea- 
sures have  lost  their  zest,  and  the  mind  can  no  longer 
look  forward  to  the  dark  and  mysterious  future. 
Above  all,  beware  of  the  ignis  fatuus  of  false  philo- 
sophy: that  must  be  a  very  defective  system  of 
ethics  which  will  not  bear  a  man  through  the  most 
trying  stage  of  his  existence,  and  I  know  of  none  that 
will  do  it  but  the  Christian. 

MARRIAGE. 

I  Have  one  observation  to  make,  which  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  in  me  :  it  is,  that  you  fall  in  love  too 
readily.  I  have  no  notion  of  a  man's  having  a  certain 
species  of  affection  for  two  women  at  once.  I  am 
afraid  you  let  your  admiration  outrun  your  judgment 
in  the  outset,  and  then  comes  the  denouement  and  its 
attendants,  disappointment  and  disgust.  Take  good 
heed  you  do  not  do  this  in  marriage;  for  if  you  do, 
there  will  be  a  great  risk  of  your  making  shipwreck  of 
your  hopes.  Be  content  to  learn  a  woman's  good 
qualities  as  they  gradually  reveal  themselves;  and 
do  not  let  your  imagination  adorn  her  with  virtues 
and  charms  to  which  she  has  no  pretension.  I  think 
there  is  often  a  little  disappointment  after  marriage — 
our  angels  turn  out  to  be  mere  Eves;  but  the  true^ 
way  of  avoiding,  or,  at  least,  lessening  this  inconve- 
nience, is  to  estimate  the  object  of  our  affections  really 
as  she  is,  without  deceiving  ourselves,  and  injuring 


KIRKE     WHITE.  197 

her,  by  elevating  her  above  her  sphere.  This  is  the 
way  to  be  happy  in  marriage  ;  for  upon  this  plan  our 
partners  will  be  continually  breaking  in  upon  us,  and 
delighting  us  with  some  new  discovery  of  excellence: 
while,  upon  the  other  plan,  wc  shall  always  be  finding 
that  the  reality  falls  short  of  what  we  had  so  fondly 

and  so  foolishly  imagined. 

*         ♦         *         *         *         *         * 

I  hope  you  will  soon  find  that  a  wife  is  a  very 
necessary  article  of  enjoyment  in  a  domesticated  state ; 
for  how  indeed  should  it  be  otherwise?  A  man 
cannot  cook  his  dinner  while  he  is  employed  in  earning 
it.  Housekeepers,  are  complete  helluones  rei  familia- 
ris,  and  not  only  pick  your  pockets,  but  abuse  you  into 
the  bargain.  While  a  wife,  on  the  contrary,  both 
cooks  your  dinner,  and  enlivens  it  with  her  society; 
receives  you  after  the  toils  of  the  day  with  cheerful- 
ness and  smiles,  and  is  not  only  the  faithful  guardian 
of  your  treasury,  but  the  soother  of  your  cares,  and 
the  alleviator  of  your  calamities.  Now,  am  I  not 
very  poetical.'  But  on  such  a  subject  who  would 
not  be  poetical?  A  wife! — a  domestic  fireside! — the 
cheerful  assiduities  of  love  and  tenderness!  It  would 
insfpire  a  Dutch  burgomaster!  and  if,  Vith  all  this 
in  your  grasp,  you  shall  still  choose  the.  pulsare 
terram  pede  libera,  still  avoid  the  irrupta  copula,  still 
deem  it  a  matter  of  light  refgard  to  be  an  object  6f 
affection  and  fondness  to  an  amiable  and  sensible 
woman,  why  then  you  deserve  to  be  a  fellow  of  a 
college  all  your  days;  to  be  kicked  about  in  your 
last  illness  by  a  saucy  and  careless  bed-maker:  and, 
lastly,  to  be  put  in  the  ground  in  your  college  chapel, 
followed  only  by  the  man  who  is  to  be  your  successor. 
Why,  man,  I  dare  no  more  dream  that  I  shall  ever 
17* 


198  KIRKE    WHITE. 

have  it  in  my  power  to  have  a  wife,  than  that  I  shall 
be  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  primate  of  all  Eng- 
land. A  suite  of  rooms  in  a  still  quiet  corner  of  old 
St.  John's,  which  was  once  occupied  by  a  crazy  monk, 
or  by  one  of  the  translators  of  the  Bible  in  the  days 
of  good  King  James,  must  form  the  boundary  of  my 
ambition.  I  must  be  content  to  inhabit  walls  which 
never  echoed  with  a  female  voice,  to  be  buried  in 
glooms  which  were  never  cheered  with  a  female  smile. 
It  is  said,  indeed,  that  women  were  sometimes  per- 
mitted to  visit  St.  John's  when  it  was  a  monastery  of 
white-friars,  in  order  to  be  present  at  particular  reli- 
gious ceremonies;  but  the  good  monks  were  careful  to 
sprinkle  holy  water  wherever  their  profane  footstepa 
had  carried  contagion  and  pollution. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Philosophers  have  divested  themselves  of  their  na- 
tural apathy,  and  poets  have  risen  above  themsfelves, 
in  descanting  on  the  pleasures  of  Melancholy.  There 
is  no  mind  so  gross,  no  understanding  so  uncultivated, 
as  to  be  incapable,  at  certain  moments,  and  amid 
certain  combinations,  of  feeling  that  sublime  influence 
upon  the  spirits  which  steals  the  soul  from  the  petty 
anxieties  of  the  world 

'And  fits  it  to  hold  converse  with  the  gods.' 

I  must  confess,  if  such  there  be  who  never  felt  the 
divine  abstraction,  I  envy  them  not  their  insensibilty. 
For  my  own  part,  it  is  from  the  indulgence  of  this 
soothing  power  that  I  derive  the  most'  exquisite  of 
gratifications;  at  the  calm  hour  of  moonlight,  amid 
all  the  sublime  serenity,  the  dead  stillness  of  the 
night;  or   when   the    howling    storm  rages   in   the 


KIRKE  WHITE.  199 

heavens,  the  rain  pelts  on  my  roof,  and  the  winds 
whistle  through  the  crannies  of  my  apartment;  I  feel 
the  divine  mood  of  melancholy  upon  rue;  I  imagine 
myself  placed  upon  an  eminence,  above  the  crowds 
who  pant  below  in  the  dusty  tracks  of  wealth  and 
honour.  The  black  catalogue  of  crimes  and  of  vice,  ' 
the  sad  tissue  of  wretchedness  and  woe,  passes  in  re- 
view before  me,  and  I  look  down  upon  man  with  an 
eye- of  pity  aind  commisseration.  Though  the  scenes 
which  I  survey  be  mournful,  and  the  ideas  they  ex- 
cite equally  sombre;  though  the  tears  gush  as  I 
contemplate  them,  and  my  heart  feels  heavy  with  the 
sorrowful  emotions  which  they  inspire;  yet  are  they 
not  unaccompanied  with  sensations  of  the  purest  and 
most  ecstatic  bliss. 

It  is  to  the  spectator  alone  that  Melancholy  is  for- 
bidding; in  herself  she  is  soft  and  interesting,,  and 
capable  of  affording  pure  and  unalloyed  delight.  Ask 
the  lover  why  he  muses  by  the  side  of  the  purling 
brook,  or  plunges  into  the  deep  gloom  of  the  forest? 
Ask  the  unfortunate  why  he  seeks  the  still  shades  of 
solitude?  or  the  man  who  feels  the  pangs  of  disap- 
pointed ambition,  why  he  retires  into  the  silent 
walks  of  seclusion?  and  he  will  tell  you  that  he  de-^  " 
rives  a  pleasure  therefrom  which  nothing  else  can 
impart  It  is  the  delight  of  Melancholy;  but  the 
melancholy  of  these  beings  is  as  far  removed  from 
that  of  the  philosopher,  as  are  the  narrow  and  con- 
tracted complaints  of^  selfishness  from  the  mournful 
regrets  of  expansive  philanthropy;  as  are  the  despond- 
ing intervals  lof  insanity  from  the  occasional  depreS 
sions  of  benevolent  sensibility. 

Trie  man  who  has  attained  that  calm  equanimity 
which  qualifies  him  to  look  do\iB  upon  the  petty  evils 


200  KIRKE    WHITE. 

of  life  with  indifference;  who  can  so  far  conquer  the 
weakness  of  nature  as  to  consider  the  sufferings  of 
the  individual  of  little  moment,  when  put  in  compe- 
tition with  the  welfare  of  the  community,  is  alone  the 
true  philosopher.  His  melancholy  is  not  excited  by 
the  retrospect  of  his  own  misfortunes;  it  has  its  rise 
from  the  contemplation  of  the  miseries  incident  to  life, 
and  the  evils  which  obtrude  themselves  upon  society, 
and  interrupt  the  harmony  of  nature.  It  would  be 
arrogating  too  much  merit  to  myself  to  assert  that  I 
have  a  just  claim  to  the  title  9f  a  philosopher,  as  it  is 
here  deffiied;  or  to  say  that  the  speculations  of  my 
melancholy  hours  are  equally  disinterested:  be  this 
as  it  may,  I  have  determined  to  present  my  solitary 
effusions  to  the  public;  they  will  at  least  have  the 
merif  of  novelty  to  recommend  them,  and  may  possibly, 
in  some  measure,  be  instrumental  in  the  melioration 
of  the  human  heart,  or  the  correction  of  false  prepos- 
sessi6ns.  This  is  the  height  of  my  ambition;  this 
once  attained,  and  my  end  will  be  fully  accomplished. 
One  thing  I  can  safely  promise,  though  far  from 
being  the  coinages  of  a  heart  at  ease,  they  will  contain 
neither  the  querulous  captiousness  of  misfortunes,  nor 
the  bitter  taunts  of.  misanthrophy.  Society  is  a  chain 
of  which  I  am  gierely  a  link;  all  men  are  my  asso- 
ciates in  error;  and  though  some  may  have  gone 
farther  in  the  ways  of  guilt  than  myself,  yet  it  is  not 
in  me  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  them;  it  is  mine  to 
treat  them  rather  in  pity  than  in  anger,  to  lament 
their  crimes,  and  weep  over  their  sufferings.  As  these 
papers  will  be  the  amusement  of  those  hours  of  re- 
laxation', when  the  mind  recedes  from  the  vexations 
of  business,  and  sinks  into  itself  for  a  moment  of 
solitary  ease,  rather  than  the  efforts  of  literary  leisure, 


KIRKE    WHITE.  201 

the  reader  will  not  expect  to  find  in  them  unusual 
elegance  of  language,  or  studied  propriety  of  style. 
In  the  short  and  necessary  intervals  of  cessation  from 
the  anxieties  of  an  irksome  employment,  olie  finds 
little  time  to  be  solicitous  about  ex'pression.  If, 
therefore,  the  fervour  of  a  glowing  mind  expresses 
itself  in  too  warm  and  luxuriant  a  manner  for  the  cold 
ear  of  dull  propiety,  let  the  fastidious  critic  find  a 
selfish  pleasure  in  decrying  it.  To  criticism  melan- 
choly is  indifferent.  If  learning  cannot  be  better  em- 
ployed than  in  declaiming  against  the  defects,  while 
it  is  insensible  to  the  beauties  of  a  performance,  well 
may  we  exclaim  with  the  poet, 

n  tu/utv)if  etyvciA  ee(  AfAcefx-o;  ris  a 
Otdei  01  cu  cv  iypic  cytccc  a-'  ovKktyvau, 

THE    HUMAN    MIND. 

The  economy  of  creation  is  every  where  pregnant 
'with  wonder;  but  nature  has  no  mystery  so  astonish- 
ing, no  secret  so  dark,  as  the  human  mind.  It  was 
in  this  respect,  in  respect  to  his  reasoning  powers,  that 
man  was  originally  made  in  the  express  image  of 
God;  and  it  is  from  hence  that  the  same  inscrutable 
gloom  hangs  over  that  wonderful  part  of  our  being 
which  is  called  mind,  as  shrouds  the  king  of  the  uni- 
verse himself,  and  all  his  attributes,  from  the  vulgar 
gaze. 

Although  we  are  sometimes  able,  obscurely,  to 
trace  our  ratiocinative  faculties  in  the  course  of  their 
operations,  yet  our  observations  tend  to  little  more 
than  to  excite  astonishment  at  the  subtilty  of  their 
transitions,  and  the  swiftness  with  which  they  trans- 
verse ail  nature,  and  connect,  by  an  almost  imper- 


202  KIRKE   WHITE 

ceptible  link,  ideas  the  most  distant.  Being  thus 
little  acquainted  with  the  mind  at  large,  we  know  it 
merely  by  its  effects,  and  consider  genius,  or  natural 
superiority  of  intellect,  only  in  connexion  with  the 
object  to  which  it  is  directed,  and  in  which  it  excels; 
but  the  ethereal  and  evanescent  quality  in  which  ge- 
nius more  particularly  consists,  seems  to  elude  our 
keenest  observation.  The  power  of  combining  a  larger 
number  of  ideas  must  always  be  regarded  as  a  cha- 
racteristic of  a  great  mind;  but  it  is  so  far  from  being 
the  sole  constituent  of  genius,  that  alone  it  would, 
probably,  produce  no  movements  of  excellence.  If  it 
were  unattended  with  the  warmth  and  enthusiasm, 
which  is  another  and  a  more  universal  mark  of  genius, 
it  would  want  an  adequate  motive  for  exertion;  it 
would  soon  grow  cold  and  languid  in  its  efforts,  and 
would  achieve  nothing,  because  it  would  plan  little. 
There  are  even  adventitious  circumstances,  which, 
though  they  add  nothing  to  the  powers  of  the  mind 
themselves,  are  perhaps  necessary  to  call  them  into 
action,  and  without  which  they  might  lie  imnoticed 
and  undiscovered.  I  believe  that  even  Pascal  him- 
self, although  so  many  wonders  are  told  of  the  irresist-. 
ible  impulse  by  which  he  was  led  to  the  mathematics, 
was  indebted  for  his  first  inclination  for  these  studies 
to  the  conversation  of  his  father,  who  was  deeply 
versed  in  them. 

Milton  was  blind,  and  Homer  is  supposed  to  have 
been  blind;  and  where  do  we  meet  with  such  strong 
and  characteristic  painting  as  in  Milton  and  Homer.' 
Those  works  of  the  former  poet  which  were  written 
before  the  loss  of  his  sight,  beautiful  and  glowing  as 
they  are,  do  not  possess  either  the  strength  of  delinea- 
tion, or  the  bold  sublimity  of  conception,  remarkablo 


KIRKE    WPIITE.  20;5 

in  his  epics.  It  may  be  thought  paradoxical  to  assert 
that  he  would  never  have  produced  the  Paradise  Lost, 
had  he  never  lost  his  sight;  but  that  it  had  consider- 
able influence  on  that  work,  will,  on  reflection,  ap- 
pear not  improbable. 

A  thousand  springs,  unseen  even  to  the  eye  of  the 
minute  observer,  contribute  to  the  "production  of  a 
work  of  genius.  The  sophists  imagine  that  man  was 
once  a  monkey,  and  inhabited  the  woods,  but  that  he 
accidentally  learned  the  use  of  the  muscle,  by  the 
contraction  of  which  the  thumb  is  brought  in  contact 
with  the  forefinger;  that,  from  the  dexterity  which 
this  discovery  gave  him,  he  gradually  improved  his 
faculties,  and  heaped  discovery  upon  discovery,  until 
he  arose  to  the  summit  of  science  and  art.  'This  ri- 
diculous story  may  be  applied  with  more  propriety  to 
the  mind.  The  energies  of  a  mighty  genius  lie  dor- 
mant, like  a  treasure  hidden  even  frorp  its  owner, 
until  some  happy  chance,  some  fortunate  accident, 
gives  them  the  first  impulse,  and  awakes  their  owner 
to  a  sense  of  his  unobserved  powers.  From  this  pe- 
riod the  progress  of  genius  may  be  gradual,  but  it  is 
sure:  when  once  the  enchanted  spring  has  been 
touched,  the  mind  will  recur  with  eagerness  to  ita^ 
newly  discover'd  pursuit;  it  will  hang  with  a  secret 
and  inexpressible  fondness  over  its  hidden  beauties; 
it  will  expatiate  on  all  its  varying  appearances,  and 
trace  itS  unfolding  graces,  until  it  comes  forth  pre- 
pared to  astonish  mankind  with  pure  and  original 
excellence.  In  works  of  mere  genius,  the  fire  and 
animation  which  stamps  their  sterling  worth  upon 
them  is  often  caught  from  the  mere  reflection  of  these 
first  transports.  A  kind  of  sacred  sublimity  seems  to 
dwell  upon  every  thing  connected  with  that  object  to 


-04  KiaKE     WHITE. 

which  the  genius  is  particularly  bent,  and  as  often  as 
it  is  recalled  to  the  mind,  the  fervour  and  enthusiasm 
of  former  periods  are  again  and  again  excited. 

To  this  cause  I  attribute  the  particularities  of  com- 
position and  character  which  have  distinguished  some 
of  the  poets.  Some  have  manifested  peculiar  fondness 
for  night — some  for  ocean  scenery;  others  for  woods 
and  groves;  and,  among  the  incidents  of  mortal  life,- 
for  subjects  which  touch  on  grief,  or  love,  fortitude, 
complaint,  death.  So,  likewise,  many  have  been  able 
to  write  only  at  particular  periods.  Milton's  verse 
flovved  only  from  the  autumnal  to  the  vernal  equinox; 
and  Thomson  seldom  composed  except  in  the  autumn, 
and  during  the  night  season.  Poetry,  with  them,  was 
connecteci  with  particular  impressions  which  probably 
they  were  themselves  unable  to  trace,  but  from  which  it 
was  in  no  wise  happily  to  be  separated.  Dr.  Johnson 
has  sneered  at  these  fancies,  as  he  is  pleased  to  call 
them;  but  when  he  has  defined  in  what  true  genius 
consists,  he  may  be  permitted  to  decide  on  matters 
which  affect  its  essence. 

Conceiving  it,  then,  to  be  at  all  events  in  a  greater 
or  less  degree  true,  that  genius  depends  on  fortuitous 
circumstances,  and  external  impressions,  the  poet's 
position  will  appear  most  certain,  that 

*  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.* 

This  reflection  might  be  a  mournful  one  tQ  a  disci- 
ple of  Epicurus;  but,  confiding  in  the  existence  of  an 
all-good  and  wise  Providence,  we  trust  that  no  man 
of  real  genius  has  been  permitted  to  wear  away  the 
day  of  mortality  in  obscurity  and  neglect,  but  him 


KIBKE  WHITE.  206 

whose  talents,  had  they  been  called  into  action,  would 
have  been  ruinous  to  manlcind,  and  destructive  to 
himself. 

PICTURES    OF    MISERY. 

It  is  common  for  busy  and  active  men  to  behold  the 
occupations  of  the  retired  and  contemplative  person 
with  contempt.  They  consider  his  speculations  as  idle 
and  unproductive;  as  they  participate  in  none  of  his 
feelings,  they  are  strangers  to  his  motives,  his  views, 
and  his  delights;  they  behold  him  elaborately  employ- 
ed on  what  they  conceive  forwards  none  of  the  inter- 
ests of  life,  contributes  to  none  of  its  gratifications,  re- 
moves  none    of  its   inconveniences:    they  conclude, 
therefore,  that  he  is  led  away  by  the  delusions  of  fu- 
tile philosophy,  that  he  labours  for  no  good,  and  lives 
to  no  end.     Of  the  various  frames  of  mind  which  they 
observe  in  bun,  no  one  seems  to  predominate  more, 
and  none  appears  to  them  more  absurd,  than  sadness, 
which  seems,  in  some  degree,  to  pervade  all  his  views, 
and  shed  a  solemn  tinge  over  all  his  thoughts.     Sad- 
ness, arising  from  no  personal  grief,  and  connected 
with  no  individual  concern,  they  regard  as  moonstruck 
melancholy,  the  effect  of  a  mind  overcast  with  con- 
stitutional gloom,  and  diseased  with  habits  of  vain  and 
fanciful  speculation. — 'We  can  share  with  the  sorrows 
of  the   unfortunate,'   say    they,   '  but   this   monastic 
spleen  merits  only  our  derision:  it  tends  to  no  benefi- 
cial purpose,  it  benefits  neither  its  possessor  nor  socie- 
ty.'    Those  who  have  thought  a  little  more  on  this 
subject  than  the  gay  and  busy  crowd  will  draw  con- 
clusions of  a  different  nature.     That  there  is  a  sadness 
springing  from  the  noblest  and  purest  sources,  a  sad- 
ness friendly  to  the  human  heart,  and,  by  direct  con- 
18 


206  KIRKE    WHITE. 

sequence,  to  human  nature  in  general,  is  a  truth  which 
a  little  illustration  will  render  tolerably  clear,  and 
which,  when  understood  in  its  full  force,  may  proba- 
bly convert  contempt  and  ridicule  into  respect. 

I  set  out,  then,  with  the  proposition,  that  the  man 
who  thinks  deeply,  especially  if  his  reading  be  exten* 
sive,  will,  unless  his  heart  be  very  cold  and  very  light, 
become  habituated  to  a  pensive,  or,  with  more  pro- 
priety, a  mournful  cast  of  thought.  This  will  arise 
from  two  more  particular  sources — from  the  view  of 
human  nature  in  general,  as  demonstrated  by  the  ex- 
perience both  of  past  and  present  times,  and  from  the 
contemplation  of  individual  instances  of  human  de- 
pravity and  of  human  suffering.  The  first  of  these  is, 
indeed,'  the  last  in  the  order  of  time,  for  his  general 
views  of  humanity  are  in  a  manner  consequential,  or 
resulting  from  a  special;  but  I  have  inverted  that 
order  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity. 

Of  those  who  have  occasionally  thought  on  these 
subjects,  I  may,  with  perfect  assurance  of  their  reply, 
inquire  what  have  been  their  sensations  when  they 
have,  for  a  moment,  attained  a  more  enlarged  and  ca- 
pacious notion  of  the  state  of  man  in  all  its  bearings 
and  dependencies.  They  have  found,  and  the  pro- 
foundest  philosophers  have  done  no  more,  that  they 
are  enveloped  in  mystery,  and  that  the  mj'stery  of  man's 
situation  is  not  without  alarming  and  fearful  circumstan- 
ces. They  have  discovered  that  all  they  know  of  them- 
selves is  that  they  live,  but  that  from  whence  they  came 
or  whither  they  are  going,  is  by  nature  altogether  hid- 
den; that  impenetrable  gloem  surround»themon  every 
side,  and  that  they  even  hold  their  morrow  on  the 
credit  of  to  day,  when  it  is,  in  fact,  buried  in  the  vague 
and  indistinct  gulf  of  the  ages  to  come! — These  are 


KIRKE    WHITE.  207 

reflections  deeply  interesting,  and  lead  to  others  so 
awful,  that  many  gladly  shut  their  eyes  on  the  giddy 
and  unfathomable  depths  which  seem  to  stretch  before 
them,  The  meditative  man,  however,  endeavours  to 
pursue  them  to  the  farthest  stretch  of  the  reasoning 
powers,  and  to  enlarge  his  conceptions  of  the  mysteries 
of  his  own  existence;  and  the  more  he  learns,  and  the 
deeper  he  penetrates,  the  more  cause  does  he  find  for 
being  serious,  and  the  more  inducements  to  be  con- 
tinually thoughtful. 

If,  again,  we  turn  from  the  condition  of  mortal 
existence,  considered  in  the  abstract,  to  the  qualities 
an''  characters  of  man,  and  his  condition  in  a  state  of 
society,  we  see  things  perhaps  equally  strange  and  in- 
finitely more  affecting.-^In  the  economy  of  creation, 
we  perceive  nothing  inconsistent  with  the  power  of  an 
all-wise  <ind  all-merciful  God.  A  perfect  harmony 
runs  through  all  the  parts  of  the  universe.  Plato's 
sirens  sing  not  only  from  tjje  planetary  octave,  but 
through  all  the  minutest  divisions  of  the  stupendous 
whole;  order,  beauty,  and  perfection,  the  traces  of  the 
great  Architect,'  glow  through  every  particle  of  his 
work.  At  man,  however,  we  stop:  there  is  one  excep- 
tion. The  harmony  of  order  ceases,  and  vice  and 
misery  disturb  the  beautiful  consistency  of  creation, 
and  bring  us  first  acquainted  with  positive  evil.  We 
behold  men  carried  irresistibly  away  by  corrupt  prin- 
ciples and  vicious  inclinatiens,  indulging  in  propen- 
sities, destructive  as  well  to  themselves  as  to  those 
around  them;  the  stronger  oppressing  the  weaker,  and 
the  bad  persecuting  the  good!  we  see  the  depraved  in 
prosperity,  the  virtuous  in  adversity,  the  guilty  un- 
punished, the  deserving  overwhelmed  with  unprovoked 
misfortunes.     From  hence  we  are  tempted  to  think. 


20S 


KIRKE    WHITE. 


that  He,  whose  arm  holds  the  planets  in  their  course, 
and  directs  the  comets  along  their  eccentric  orbits, 
ceases  to  exercise  his  providence  over  the  affairs  of 
mankind,  and  leaves  them  to  be  governed  and  direct- 
ed by  the  impulses  of  a  corrupt  heart,  or  the  blind 
workings  of  chance  alone.  Yet  this  is  inconsistent  both 
with  thcvwisdom  and  goodness  of  the  Deity.  If  God 
permit  evil,  he  causes  it;  the  difference  is  casuistical. 
We  are  led,  therefore,  to  conclude,  that  it  was  not  al- 
ways thus:  that  man  was  created  in  a  far  dififerent  and 
far  happier  condition ;  but  that,  by  some  means  or  oth- 
er, he  has  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  Maker.  Here 
then  is  a  mystery.  The  ancients,  led  by  reasonings 
alone,  perceived  it  with  amazement,  but  did  not  solve 
the  problem.  They  attempted  some  explanation  of  it 
fay  the  lame  fiction  of  a  golden  age  and  its  cession, 
where,  by  a  circular  mode  of  reasoning,  they  attribute 
the  introduction  of  vice  to  their  gods  having  deserted 
the  earth,  and  the  desertion  of  the  gods  to  the  introduc- 
tion of  vice.*  This,however,was  the  logic  of  the  poets: 

*  KotI  TOTS  eTj)  5r/JC?  CXU^TTOV  St^TO  ^^floVCf  (UgUoS'lOli, 

Auixea-tv  (pifmrcrt  iMku-^ct/^tva  yjoa.  iulmv, 
AOnycfTOiv  /utrcL  <fuKo*  inv,  Trpo^jTrovr'  avS/>«r«uf 
Aji'ui  MM  tie/utunc'  rx  Si  xa-fsTsu  etxynt  xvypst. 
QvuroK  eudpemrota-f,  kujuu  J"'  ovx,  ta-a-irett  ai\x>i. 

Hesiod.  Opera  et  Dies.  Lib.  1.  195. 

Victa  jacet  Pietas  :  et  Virgo  caede  madentes. 
Ultima  coelesUim  terras  Astraea  reliquit. 

Ovid.  Metamor.  L.  1.  Fab.  4. 

Paulatim  deinde  ad  Superos  Astrsa  recessit, 
Hac  comite  atque  duae  pariter  fugere  sorores. 

Juvenal.  Sat.  vi,  1.  10. 


KIEKE    WHITE.  209 

the  pliilosophers  disregarded  the  fable,  but  did  not 
dispute  the  fact  it  was  intended  to  account  for.  They 
often  hint  at  human  degeneracy,  and  some  unknown 
curse  hanging  over  our  being,  and  even  coming  into  the 
world  along  with  us.  Pliny,  in  the  preface  to  his 
seventh  book,  has  this  remarkable  passage:  "  The 
animal  ahout  to  rule  over  the  rest  of  the  created  ani- 
mals lies  weeping,  bound  hand  and  foot,  making  his 
first  entrance  upon  life  with  sharp  pangs,  and  this  for 
no  other  crime  than,  that  he  is  born  man." — Cicero, 
in  a  passage,  for  the  preservation  df  which  we  are  in- 
debted to  St.  Augustine,  gives  a  yet  stronger  idea  of 
an  existing  degeneracy  ,  in  human  nature  : — •  Man,' 
says  he,  '  comes  into  existence,  not  as  from  the  hands 
of  a  mother,  but  of  a  step-dame  nature,  with  a  body 
feeble,  naked,  and  fragile,  and  a  mind  exposed  to  anx- 
iety and  care,  abject  in  fear,  unmeet  for  labour,  prone 
to  licentiousness,  in  which,  however,  there  still  dwell 
some  sparks  of  the  divine  mind,  though  obscured,  and, 
as  it  were,  in  ruins.'  And,  in  another  place,  he  inti- 
mates it  as  a  current  opinion,  that  man  comes  into 
the  world  as  into  a  state  of  punishment  expiatory  of 
crimes  committed  in  some  previous  stage  of  existence, 
of  which  we  now  retain  no  recollection. 

From  these  proofs,,  and  from  daily  observation  and 
experience,  there  is  every  ground  for  concluding  that 
man  is  in  a  state  of  misery  and  depravity  quite  incon- 
sistent with  the  happiness  for  which,  by  a  benevolent 
God,  he  must  have  been  created.  We  see  glaring 
marks  of  this  in  oilr  times.  •  Prejudice  alone  blinds  us 
to  the  absurdity  and  the  horror  of  those  systematic 
murders  which  go  by  the  name  of  wars,  where  man 
falls  on  man,  brother  slaughters  brother;  where  death, 
in  every  variety  of  horror,  preys  '  on  the  finely-fibred 
18* 


210  KIRKE  WHITE. 

human  frame, ^  and  where  the  cries  of  the  widow  and 
the  orphan  rise  up  to  heaven  long  after  the  thunderof 
the  fight  and  the  clang  of  arms  have  ceased,  and  the 
bones  of  sons,  brothers,  and  husbands  slain  are  grown 
white  on  the  field.  Customs  like  these  vouch,  with 
most  miraculous  organs,  for  the  depravity  of  the  hu- 
man heart,  and  these  are  not  the  most  mournful  of 
those  considerations  which  present  themselves  to  the 
mind  of  the  thinking  man. 

Private  life  is  equally  fertile  in  calamitous  perver- 
sion of  reason,  and  extreme  accumulation  of  misery. 
On  the  one  hand,  A^e  see  a  large  proportion  of  men 
sedulously  employed  in  the  eduction  of  their  own 
ruin,  pursuing -vice  in  all  its  varieties,  and  sacrificing 
the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  iniiocent  and  unoffend- 
ing to  their  own  brutal  gratifications;  and  on  the  other, 
pain,  misfortune,  and  misery,  overwhelming  alike  the 
good  and  the  bad,  the  provident  and  the  improvident. 
But  too  general  a  view  would  distract  our  attention: 
let  the  reader  pardon  me  if  I  suddenly  draw  him 
away  from  the  survey  of  the  crov^ds  of  life  to  a  few 
det&ched  scenes.  We  will  select  a  single  picture  at 
random.     The  character  is  common. 

Behold  that  beautiful  female,  who  is  rallying  a  well 
dressed  young  man  with  so  much  gaiety  and  humour? 
Did  you  ever  see  so  lovely  a  countenance.'  There  is 
an  expression  of  vivacity  in  her  fine  dark  eye  which 
quite  captivates  one;  and  her  smile,  were  it  a  little 
less  bold,  would  be  bewitching.  How  gay  and  care- 
less she  seems!  One  would  suppose  she  had  a  very 
light  and  happy  heart.  Alas!  how  appearances  de- 
ceive! This  gaiety  is  all  feigned.  It  is  her  business 
to  please,  ^d  beneath  a  fair  and  painted  outside  she 
conceals  an  unquiet  and  forlorn  breast.  When  she  wad 


KIRKE   WHITF.  211 

yet  very  young,  an  engaging  but  dissolute  young  man 
took  advantage  of  her  simplicity,  and  of  the  affection 
with  which  he  had  inspired  her,  to  betray  her  virtue. 
At   first  her  infamy  coat  her   many  tears;  but  habit 
wore  away  this  remorse,  leaving  only  a  kind  of  indis- 
tinct regret,  and,  as  she  fondly  loved  her  betrayer,  she 
experienced,  at  times,  a  mingled  pleasure  even  in  this 
abandoned  situation.     But  this  wag  soon  over.     Her 
lover,  on  pretence  of  a  journey  into  the  country,  left 
her  for  ever.     She  soon  afterward  heard  of  his  mar- 
riage, with  an  agony  of  grief  which/ew  can  adequate- 
ly conceive,  and  none  describe.     The   calls  of  want, 
however,  soon  subdued  the  more  distracting  ebulli- 
tions of  anguish.      She  had  no    choice  left;  all  the 
gates  of  virtue  were  shut  upon  her ;  and  though  she 
really  abhorred  the  course,  she  was  obliged  to  betake 
herself  to  vice  for  support.  Her  next  keeper  possessed 
her  person  without  her  heart.     She  has  since  passed 
through  several  hands,  and  has  found,  by  bitter   ex- 
perience, that  the  vicious,  on  whose  generosity  she  is 
thrown,  are  devoid  of  all  feeling  but  that  of  self-grati- 
fication, and  that  eyen  the  wages  of  "prostitution  are 
reluctantly  and  grudgingly  paid.     She  now  looks  on 
*all  men  as  sharpers.     She  smiles  but  to  entangle  and 
destroy;  and  while  she  simulates  fondness,  is   intent 
only  on  the  extorting  of  that,  at  best  poor  pittance, 
which  her  necessities  loudly  demand.     Thoughtless  as 
she  may  seem,  she  is  not  without  an  idea  of  her  for- 
lorn  and  wretched  situation,  and  she  looks   only  to 
sudden  death  as  her  refuge,  against  that  time  when 
her  charms  shall  cease  to  allure  the   eye  of  inconti- 
nence, when  even  the  lowest  haunts  of  infamy  shall  be 
shut  against  her,  and,  without  a  friend  or  a  hope,  she 
mufit  sink  under  the  pressure  of  want  and  disease. 


212  KIHKE    WHITE. 

But  we  will  now  shift  the  scene  a  littie,  and  select 
another  object.  Behold  yon  poor  weary  wretch,  who, 
with  a  child  wrapt'  in  her  arms,  with  difficulty  drags 
along  the  road.  The  man  with  a  knapsack,  who  is 
walking  before  her,  is  her  husband,  and  is  marching  to 
join  his  regiment.  He  has  been  spending,  at  a  dram- 
shop in  the  town  they  have  just  left,  the  supply  which 
the  pale  and  weak  appearance  of  his  wife  proclaims 
was  necessary  for  her  sustenance.  He  is  now  half 
drunk,  and  is  venting  the  artificial  spirits  which  in- 
toxication excites  in  the  abuse  of  his  weary  helpmate 
behind  him.  She  seeihs  to  listen  to  his  reproaches  in 
patient  silence.  Her  face  will  tell  you  more  than 
many  words,  as,  with  a  wan  and  meaning  look,  she 
surveys  the  little  wretch  who  is  asleep  on  her  arms. 
The  turbulent  brutality  of  the  man  excites  no  atten- 
tion: she  is  pondering  on  the  future  chance  of  life, 
and  the  probable  lot  of  her  heedless  little  one. 

One  other  picture,  and  I  have  done.  The  man 
pacing  with  a  slow  step  and  languid  aspect  over  yon 
prison-court  was  once  a  fine  dashing  fellow,  the  ad- 
miration of  the  ladies,  and  the  envy  of  the  men.  He 
is  the  only  representative  of  a  once  respectable  family, 
and  is  brought  to  this  situation  by  unlimited  indul- 
gence at  that  time  when  the  check  is  most  necessary. 
He  began  to  figure  in  genteel  life  at  an  early  age.  His 
misjudging  mother  to  whose  sole  care  he  was  left, 
thinking  no  alliance  too  good  for  her  darling,  cheer- 
fully supplied  his  extravagance,  under  the  idea  that  it 
would  not  last  long,  and  that  it  would  enable  him  to 
fhine  in  those  circles  where  she  wished  him  to  rise. 
But  he  soon  found  that  habits  of  prodigality,  once 
v.e!l  gained,  are  never  eradicated.  His  fortune. 
though  genteel,  was  not  adequate  to  such  habit's  of 


KIRKE    WHITE.  213 

expense.  His  unhappy  parent  lived  to  see  him  make 
a  degrading  alliance,  and  come  in  danger  of  a  jail, 
and  then  died  of  a  broken  heart.  His  aAairs  soon 
wound  themselves  up.  His  debts  were  enormous,  and 
he  had  nothing  to  pay  them  with.  He  has  now  been 
in  that  prison  ma'ny  years,  and  since  he  is  excluded 
from  the  beijefit  of  an  insolvency  act,  he  has  made  up 
his  mind  to  the  idea  of  ending  his  days  there.  His 
wife,  whose  beauty  had  decoyed  him,  since  she  found 
h6  could  not  support  her,  deserted  him  for  those  who 
could,  leaving  him,  without  friend  or  companion,  to 
pace,  with  measured  steps,  over  the  court  of  a  country 
jail,  and  endeavour  to  beguile  the  lassitude  of  im- 
prisonment, by  thinking  on  the  days  that  are  gone, 
or  counting  the  squares  in  his  grated  window  in  every 
possible  direction,  backwards,  forwards,  and  across, 
till  he  sighs  to  find  the  sum  always  the  same,  and  that 
the  more  anxiously  we  strive  to  beguile  the  moments 
in  their  course ,  the  more  sluggishly  they  travel. 

If  these  are  accurate  pictures  of  some  of  the  varie- 
ties ^  of  human  suffering,  and  if  ^uch  pictures  are 
common  even  to  triteness,  what  conclusions  must  we 
,  draw  as  to  the  condition  of  man  in  general,  and  whtft 
must  be  the  prevailing"  frame  of  mind  of  him  who 
meditates  much  on  these  subjects,  and  who,  embracing 
the  whole  tissue  of  causes  and  effects,  sees  Misery  in- 
variably the  offspring  of  Vice,  and  Vice  existing  in  hos- 
tility to  the  intentions  and  wishes  of  God?  Let  the 
meditative  man  turn  where  he  will,  he  finds  traces  of 
the  depraved  state  of  Nature,  and  her  consequent 
misery.  History  presents  him  with  little  but  murder, 
treachery,  and  crimes  of  every  description.  Biogra- 
phy only  strengthens  the  view  by  concentratmg  it. 
The  philosophers  remind  him  of  the  existence  of  evil, 


214        O  KIRKE    WHITE. 

by  their  lessons  how  to  avoid  or  endure  it;  and  the 
very  poets  themselves  afford  him  pleasure,  not  uncon- 
nected with  regret,  as,  either  by  contrast,  exempli- 
fication, or  deduction,  they  bring  the  world  and  its 
circumstances  before  his  eyes. 

That  such  a  one,  then,  is  prone  to  sadness,  who 
will  wonder?  If  such  meditations  are  beneficial,  who 
will  blame  them  ?  The  discovery  of  evil  naturally 
leads  us  to  contribute  our  mite  towards  the  alleviation 
of  the  wretchedness  it  introduces.  While  we  lament 
vice,  we  learn  to  shun  it  ourselves,  and  to  endeavour, 
if  possible,  to  arrest  its  progress  in  those  around  us  ; 
and  in  these  high  and  lofty  spe  culations,  we  are  in- 
sensibly led  to  think  humbly  of  ourselves,  and  to  lift 
up  our  thoughts  to  Him  who  is  alone  the  fountain  of 
''ail  perfection  and  the  source  of  all  good. 


UCSB  LIBRARY 

) 


^^/i^^^M0i^ 


^'  j£"^i^iys:''f 


S: 

xl^ 

m 

tfHBr*^H 

^1 

BBBBR.liJB 

W 

wKHS^\h}hI 

Wt^^ 

kS^l^BBl\J%«^H9 

vsJ  i 

\  K  s-fVS-ksJ' 

AM;  i 

^Lv^J^^v 

:4.vJ 

m 

iMB^ 

>9sj  e-.,^ 


iOK 


